"So you’re telling me the person who beat up that writer runs a pet shop?"

Zog asked, finding it a bit hard to believe.

After seeing those two news articles, he had arranged for an investigation into the matter.

The answer he received was that it was the work of a pet shop owner.

"Yes, his pet shop is in the Owens District," Elsa replied.

The Owens District was once the fief of Viscount Owens. This Viscount had a very strange quirk: he was a thief.

He was by no means short on cash, yet he loved to engage in petty theft. His skills were rather poor, he disliked bringing attendants, and he was frequently caught. After getting caught, he would reveal his identity as a Viscount, playing out a scene straight from a power-fantasy story.

However, this trick didn’t always work.

For example, during the last act of his thieving career, he was caught red-handed and wore an expression that said, "What are you going to do about it?"

He very confidently declared, "I’m a Viscount."

The person opposite him didn’t mince words, shooting back, "And I’m your father!"

Then he hit him with a hammer.

He died.

Viscount Owens proved firsthand that between a head and a hammer, the hammer is indeed harder.

Since he had no heirs, his inheritance was fought over by a large group of distant relatives who came out of nowhere. In the end, the King simply reclaimed the fief and incorporated it into Twin Tower City as a district.

Because it was incorporated into the city relatively late, it missed the most rapid period of development, so the Owens District was not a wealthy part of the city.

Most of its residents were laborers from the factories, only a little better off than those in the slums.

The rent for a single small storefront on Chrysanthemum Street, where Zog’s main shops were located, could get you an entire building in the Owens District.

’A pet shop opened there probably doesn’t do very good business.’

"Does he have a grudge against that writer?" Zog asked again.

"I heard he doesn’t. His own story is that he’s a fan of ’Cat and Mouse’ and couldn’t stand seeing it slandered."

’Are the fans around here always this hands-on?’

Zog was stunned.

’In my experience, fans just boosted stats online, manipulated reviews, and fought flame wars.’

’Could he be a crazed fan?’

Once anything was touched by fanaticism, it was never a good thing.

Stalking, harassment, camping outside their homes... the most extreme cases even involved fans personally killing their idols. It was impossible to understand their thought process.

Zog wasn’t afraid of such fans, but it would be a problem if one started targeting his Painters. Animators were a rare profession these days, a valuable asset to the Zog Group.

"How long was his sentence?" Zog asked.

"He wasn’t sent to prison, but he has to serve three months of labor," Elsa said.

’He’s clearly paying the price for his inexperience. Since he could win a fight, why not just propose a public duel?’

’Accept the duel, and you walk away without serving labor. Refuse, and your reputation is instantly ruined.’

If that writer had hired a proxy for the duel, Zog would have been more than happy to provide a proxy for the pet shop owner.

"Get him out, then. Whatever the reason, he did us a favor."

"Alrighty! Are we breaking him out?" Elsa asked, quite excitedly.

"Breaking who out? What in the world is going on in that young head of yours? This is something we can solve with a few Gold Coins."

Elsa looked thoroughly disappointed by this decision.

"Before you get him out, assess his mental state. If he’s not normal, just leave him in there," Zog added after a moment of thought.

If he was a fan who was fanatical to the point of being mentally unstable, it was better to keep him locked up. It would be better for society, and for him.

The current common "treatment" for the mentally ill was to drill a hole in the skull and remove part of the brain.

The result was a hundred-percent guarantee that the patient wouldn’t have another episode, but the "cured" patient was generally unable to do anything else.

The sick joke was that because Magic offered no cure for mental illness, this drilling procedure was regarded as a prime example of science’s superiority...

After the order to get the man was given, he was quickly brought out. It didn’t cost much money.

Overall, the beating hadn’t been too severe. Although the writer was black and blue and couldn’t get out of bed for several days, it was legally considered a minor injury.

Due to the existence of Healing Magic, the criteria for being legally classified as injured were incredibly strict. Looking half-dead would typically only qualify as a minor injury.

To demonstrate the attitude that "anyone who works for the Zog Group will not be treated poorly," Zog personally drove the shop owner home.

Which was also his pet shop.

Besides the one person and one Dragon, the car was also stuffed with all kinds of gifts.

Although he was, in fact, just finishing his sentence, it was made to look like a glorious homecoming.

The pet shop owner appeared to be an amiable man in his fifties or sixties. He was surprisingly sturdy, or else he wouldn’t have been able to beat someone up.

It was rare to see a commoner in Twin Tower City who was still healthy at this age. To be precise, it was rare to see a commoner of this age at all.

"Ha! So you really do look like this! I thought the person who sold me the statue was lying to me," the shop owner said cheerfully, showing no fatigue from his few days of labor.

"A statue? What statue?" Zog asked.

"Your statue, of course," the shop owner gushed. "Let me tell you, while the shape is more or less right, the sheen, the texture... it’s a far cry from you in person—no, in Dragon."

’Of course. If a sculptor could truly replicate the texture of an Ancient Dragon’s scales, with that kind of talent, why would they be making statues? It would be a complete waste of their genius.’

But the key question was, "Why would you buy a statue of me?" Zog didn’t quite understand.

As the boss of the Zog Group, he was quite famous, but being famous didn’t mean people should be making statues of him.

It was hard to imagine someone displaying a statue of General Manager Lei in their home.

And it wasn’t like he had the kind of quirk that made him hum with delight at the thought of someone fiddling with a figurine of his likeness.