"Damn it!"
Without hesitation, the boy spun around and dashed toward the diner. Felte, clueless as to what had occurred, had no choice but to follow, calling out breathlessly as he ran, "What happened?!"
"We've all been deceived! Because the scene was a mess, we assumed someone had broken into the storeroom and made a mess while searching for food. I'd been racking my brain trying to figure out how they bypassed the sealed door! But now that I think about it from another angle… the truth might be entirely different!"
Felte blinked, puzzled. "Huh? What do you mean?"
"In other words," said Instleton, "from the moment we left the storeroom to pursue the thief to when we returned and found it in disarray… not a single person had entered!"
"But that's impossible! If no one went in, how could it be such a mess?"
"Don't you remember? By the air vent, on the shelf—what was sitting there?"
"That was…" Felte paused, then gasped, "A stick!"
"Exactly! To make a mess of the storeroom, the thief never needed to enter. The vent can open ten centimeters—too small for a person, but more than enough for a hand. That scoundrel picked up the stick and wreaked havoc within reach—tipping over baskets of vegetables, knocking bowls from the shelves, toppling the box of cutlery—all from outside!"
"That's… Wait, no! What about the freezer? Its door was open—you can't pull that open with a stick!"
"That's the cleverest part of the trick. That bastard… he tied a roasting hook to the end of the stick! That way, he could pry open the freezer and hook out the roast chicken and eggs. The upturned shelf was the giveaway. Once he'd taken everything, there was no way to put the stick and hook back without them standing out—so he knocked over the shelf itself! But even that wasn't enough. To fully disguise the purpose of the hook, he deliberately smashed bowls and overturned boxes—things unrelated to food—to deepen the illusion!"
At this point, Felte's expression changed dramatically. His steps faltered, his breath came in ragged gasps. "So… that scene we saw…!"
Instleton nodded grimly. "Exactly. It was nothing more than the illusion of a ransacked storeroom. Now I see it clearly—his kicking at the door, the breath marks on the glass, they were all calculated moves to mislead us into thinking he had broken in. It lulled us into lowering our guard. And in the end…"
Bathed in soft moonlight, the two boys arrived once again at the diner. Staring at the pitch-dark interior, Instleton bit his lip. His freckles flushed with rage, rising like tiny welts on his pale skin.
"We left… without even locking the door."
By the time they returned to the storeroom, the milk was gone. The last small box of eggs—gone. The three scattered potatoes, two stalks of cabbage, and four bruised tomatoes—all gone. At last, Instleton collapsed to his knees, his face pale and stricken with despair.
Half an hour later, in the lofty office atop the tower, the two boys stood in silence before the desk. Principal Campa, hands clasped behind his back, gazed through the floor-to-ceiling window at the moonlit streets below, bathed in golden lamplight.
"One can of milk. Twelve eggs. Three potatoes. Two cabbages. Four rotten tomatoes. And the sack of flour in the corner—was it stolen?"
Instleton remained mute, as though his spirit had left him. It was Felte who answered, "No… it wasn't stolen, sir. Damn it! If that thief had taken the flour, it would've left powder on him, and we could have tracked him down by the trail! Mr. Campa, if we just—"
Campa raised a hand, silencing him. To the boys, he appeared grim, as though simmering with anger. But in the reflection on the glass, a faint smile played on the old man's lips.
"It seems… that food will keep him alive for three, perhaps four days. Wouldn't you agree?"
Beneath the gaze of the three waning moons, shadows crouched in silence, biding their time...
At six the following morning, as the first blush of sun crept over the desert horizon, the idiot once again stood by a different pool. Before him, Principal Campa stood with hands behind his back, eyes fixed on him.
There was no need for words. With a brief exchange of glances, Campa turned and walked away. The idiot placed a small bread roll on the lounge chair by the pool, opened the parasol to shield it from the sun, then picked up the iron pail and resumed filling the drained pool.
And thus the days of summer slipped by. Every morning at six, the idiot would rise and carry out this grueling "task." Weak as he was, there was no way he could complete it. So each night, he received Campa's punishment—electric shocks so severe they tore through flesh, split his fingernails, and peeled away skin. In the beginning, the pain drove him mad. But as time wore on, he no longer screamed—only accepted the agony in silence.
One month. Two months… Still, he failed to fill the pool in a single day. Naturally, he received no food from Campa. Yet he did not die. More than that—Little Bun's condition steadily improved. Her cheeks were rosy, and she remained awake for longer stretches. When the idiot picked her up, she'd giggle and reach out with her tiny hands.
But what of the storeroom thefts?
Since Instleton and Felte's failure, Campa began assigning more guards to the diner every few days. As time passed, reinforcements increased. Yet no matter how many people stood watch, or how vigilant they were, the thefts continued. The crimes soon spread from Sector D to other dormitories. By late July, over a hundred students took turns guarding food stores—yet still, they failed to stop the mysterious thief.
The incident became the great enigma before the start of the new school year. Whispers spread that one of the new students was secretly a prodigy. Some even dubbed the thief "The Phantom Gourmet," mocking one another in jest. Despite the gossip and growing fervor, despite students volunteering en masse to guard the storerooms, the thefts continued every few days without fail. Eventually, even upperclassmen who'd scoffed at the matter joined in, wagering and swearing they would catch the legendary thief and earn fame before term began.
But all efforts were in vain.
Time marched on. And as the shadow of the Phantom Gourmet loomed larger, another figure slowly drew attention—not through fear or admiration, but ridicule.
"Look at him. Still hauling buckets to fill the pool. He's done this every day all summer. What a fool."
Students returning from extracurricular activities peered through the wire fence, pointing and laughing. Their leader, a teacher named Dracula, had a face gaunt as a skull and wore a heavy black cloak even in the sweltering heat. A blood-red gemstone gleamed from the head of his cane.
"Mr. Dracula, do you think that guy really has something wrong with his head?"
One student gestured at the idiot repeating his task.
Dracula, a master of the Lithomancy Faculty and a board member of the academy, cast a cold glance at the boy through his hollow eyes. He turned away, uninterested.
"Children, ignore that fool. He's nothing more than the principal's plaything."
"Mr. Dracula, did the principal really tell him to fill the entire pool with just a bucket?"
"Yes."
"Then he truly is an idiot. Anyone can see it's impossible. Even senior Lithomancers—there aren't five who could fill it with their powers. And that fool doesn't even try looking for a valve? He really is hopeless."
Dracula's skeletal face tightened. "Gentlemen, remember this—no matter the time or place, you must always maintain your decorum. That poor wretch you see is not to be mocked, but pitied. We must observe him not with derision, but with distant compassion. He may not yet understand wisdom—but you do. So let us watch from afar… in silence."
The once-laughing students nodded solemnly. But someone, under their breath, murmured:
"In other words… just enjoy the show while he keeps making a fool of himself."