“For a lion, hunting antelopes is justice—otherwise, it and its cubs would starve; for the antelope, escaping the lion’s hunt is also justice—otherwise, it would be eaten. In this case, is justice self-contradictory? No, what they follow is the same thing. Animals simply act on their instinct to survive; this is the law of nature, the rules that invisibly maintain and operate this world. It cannot be written on paper, nor can it be altered or defied. To call it so-called ‘justice’ is the greatest insult.”

　　Ethan took an iron bucket out of the cabinet, holding a book under one arm and carrying the bucket with the other as he walked toward the shop entrance. “If you don’t mind, help me open the door.”

　　Owen Brooks had already put down his gun by now. He could tell that Ethan had no intention of running away.

　　“What exactly are you trying to do?” Even as he asked this, Owen Brooks still opened the door for Ethan, then followed him out of the bookstore.

　　Outside, the sky was overcast and the north wind was bitterly cold. Ethan, dressed only in a shirt and suit, was visibly shivering.

　　He set the iron bucket on the ground, took out a kerosene lighter, and lit a book in his hand.

　　Continuing his earlier words, Ethan said, “So, it’s the same for humans. From the perspective of any ordinary person, only he himself is the sole protagonist of his life; everyone else, no matter how dazzling, is just a supporting role.

　　And so, justice becomes something highly subjective. A child raised in chaos, a child raised in times of peace, a child growing up in the slums, a descendant of royalty and nobility… exposed to different environments, instilled with different values, in the end, everyone will have their own justice.

　　Owen Brooks, you think what you’re doing is right, but that’s only because it fits the justice in your own heart.”

　　Owen Brooks snorted coldly. “So… what you mean is, your indiscriminate killing of innocents is what’s right?”

　　Ethan tossed the half-burned book into the iron bucket at his feet. “I never killed them. Since I arrived in Hokkaido on December 5th, I’ve never left the bookstore—at most, I come to the door to burn books or sign for deliveries. How can you say I’ve been indiscriminately killing innocents?”

　　“But you orchestrated all the cases!”

　　“Did I? Well then, do you have any evidence to prove it? Even if those people came back from the dead, they would tell you that I never ‘ordered’ them to commit murder. I only had them do some trivial things. In exchange, they could listen to some interesting news from me, or look at these books in my hands.”

　　Owen Brooks’s gaze involuntarily drifted to the nearly burnt-out book in the bucket, from which a faint purple smoke was rising.

　　“What exactly are these books?”

　　Ethan looked up at the sky. “These books record people’s ‘sins.’” He took a deep breath, glancing at the ashes in the bucket out of the corner of his eye. “The greedy and petty, hanged for all to see.”

　　Owen Brooks was startled at these words, and the image of Henry Clark’s death flashed before his eyes.

　　Ethan threw a second book into the bucket, this time with a hint of orange in the smoke.

　　“The violent and brutal, hacked to pieces.”

　　Owen Brooks glared, stepped forward, and grabbed Ethan by the collar. “Besides Henry Clark and Walter Reed, whose books do you have? Who else did you kill?! Did you kill Samuel Grant too?!”

　　Ethan smiled and casually tossed the third book into the bucket. Red smoke billowed up. “The slothful and indulgent, disemboweled.” He stared into Owen Brooks’s eyes. “The owner of this book is indeed named Samuel Grant, but not Samuel William Grant—it’s Samuel Robert Grant.”

　　Owen Brooks gritted his teeth. “You bastard…”

　　Ethan raised the last book. “This is the ‘cowardly and jealous’ Mr. Grant. Don’t worry, he’s not dead yet.” But two seconds later, Ethan still threw the book into the burning bucket. “Unfortunately, he’s gone mad—‘a fate worse than death.’ So, this book is useless now; the rest is just incomprehensible ravings. Oh, right, he went mad after seeing something when he got home last night. He hasn’t gone to school today. I wonder how he’s doing now…”

　　Owen Brooks let go of Ethan and dashed madly toward Samuel Grant’s house, cursing, “Damn it…”

　　Ethan straightened his collar and laughed maniacally at Owen Brooks’s retreating figure. “Now you understand, don’t you? What is justice! Hahahaha!”

　　Chapter 10: The First Customer

　　December 7th, 9 p.m.

　　Ethan glanced at the clock on the wall, then closed the book he was reading and stood up to stretch.

　　He walked to the bookshelves at the back, his fingers brushing over the labels of a row of books as he muttered, “2010, 2000, 1990… chemistry, hygiene products, wilderness survival… hmm… there it is… household appliances.”

　　A few minutes later, he walked out of the shop carrying a video camera.

　　Outside, under the bookstore’s display window, a drunkard was sitting there, mumbling to himself.

　　Although this was a blind spot from inside the shop, Ethan seemed to have known all along that someone was sitting there.