Chapter 120: Gift of the Evil God!

Chapter 120: The Evil God’s Gift!

“Boom!”

An explosion tore through the air.

Cullen had no idea how it had happened; entombed behind several layers of dense, heavy barriers, he was entirely blind to the world outside.

Yet he felt the sheer impact, though it was robbed of its worst terror as the pitch-black defenses before him dissolved away, self-sacrificing to absorb the force.

Armor shattered into dust, walls liquefied, and feathers molted in rapid succession.

But on the heels of the shockwave came a dizzying, churning sensation, as though he had been tossed into the air inside a rusted tin can, a violent metallic clattering ringing out without pause.

Finally, everything fell into a dead silence.

“Ah...”

A low groan squeezed past Cullen’s throat. The bruises and bumps across his body mattered little—mere flesh wounds—but his head had taken two sharp knocks, leaving his consciousness swimming in a hazy vertigo.

Fortunately, thanks to his relentless daily practice of the "Spear of Punishment" back at the Allen manor, he had grown well-accustomed to the sensation of his skull being pummeled, and his wits returned to him quickly.

Opening his eyes, he realized he had been thrown clear of the tram, now sprawled out upon the tarmac of the open road.

Looking down, he saw the little girl huddled safely in his arms, though her crushed potato chips were scattered everywhere, and their clothes were thoroughly smeared with the messy sauce.

A minor grace, at least: the clothes he wore today were cheap.

Bracing himself with his arms, he sat up. The girl’s eyes were wide and vacant with shock before she burst into a sudden, trembling wail.

Cullen had no time to comfort her; he needed to find Alfred.

The derailed tram lay on its side, its forward carriage still licking with flames and billowing thick black smoke, and Alfred had gone toward the front just before the blast.

As he stumbled forward, he passed numerous wounded groaning on the ground, alongside others lying entirely motionless in pools of blood, their fates uncertain between unconsciousness and death.

Cullen began a frantic, methodical search, his voice rising in a shout:

“Alfred! Alfred!”

Just then, a familiar vehicle pulled up ahead. A moment later, the doors flung open and two men leaped out, hoisting a stretcher between them. From the driver’s seat stepped a balding, middle-aged man with a cigarette dangling from his lips, while a woman in a red knitted sweater descended from the passenger side.

She was practically roaring:

“Hurry up and look! Find the ones that look rich and are definitively dead! We’re hauling them back to the parlor first!”

“Yes, Madam!”

“Understood, Madam!”

Pick and Dincom began rapidly turning over the bodies strewn across the ground.

Driven by the sheer desperation of survival, the phenomenon of a funeral parlor's hearse beating the police and fire engines to an accident scene was hardly unique to Luojia City.

“This one, this one!” Pick shouted. “Get over here, quick!”

Dincom rushed over, and together they hoisted a man whose body was severely charred, his arms dangling limply as he was lifted.

Cullen lunged forward at once, blocking the stretcher. It was him—it was Alfred!

Though a vast portion of his clothing was burned away and his face was masked in black soot, he was still entirely recognizable as Alfred.

“Take him to the hos—”

Cullen intended to yell for a hospital, but a sudden wave of doubt paralyzed him. Given Alfred’s physical nature, was a hospital truly the right place? Moreover, could ordinary doctors even treat him using normal medical practices?

When an abnormal entity was wounded, how exactly was one supposed to handle it?

“Sir, excuse me, are you a relative? We are from the Pavaro Family Funeral Parlor. Please accept our deepest condolences, and rest assured that we will provide you with... Huh? Is that you?”

Pick recognized Cullen.

He then looked down at the figure on the stretcher, finding him somewhat familiar as well.

“Take him to the hospital,” Cullen said.

Cullen made his decision. Regardless of the risks, a hospital was the safest bet for now, because he recalled Alfred once teasing Madam Molly about how she possessed almost no human parts left and was essentially a pure entity;

by extension, Alfred must still retain a significant amount of human anatomy.

“He looks rather dead already, sir,” Pick reminded him gently.

“He’s alive!” Cullen insisted with absolute certainty. “Now, immediately, take him to the nearest hospital. I will pay for it!”

Cullen spoke as he rifled through his own pockets, then immediately searched Alfred’s, only to find that the wallet and the cash inside had long since been incinerated.

“I will pay, I’ll take full responsibility! Now, get him to the hospital!”

Cullen shouted, pointing at the proprietress standing just behind them.

The woman pursed her lips. Evidently, she was reluctant to settle for a mere ambulance run; arriving this early, they could have easily scooped up at least one proper client to bring home.

At that moment, the bald boss—Pavaro himself, the owner of the parlor—walked over. He pressed two fingers against Alfred’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

Then,

a peculiar expression crossed his face.

He turned to his two assistants and commanded:

“Get him to the hospital and see if he can be resuscitated.”

“Yes, Boss!”

“Right away, Boss!”

The proprietress kept up a steady muttered grumble under her breath, venting her displeasure at her husband, but the man merely turned and said in a low tone:

“He's a priest.”

The woman’s complaints ceased instantly, replaced by a sudden flash of excitement:

“We can charge him in voucher coupons?”

Alfred was quickly loaded into the back of the hearse. As Pick prepared to slam the doors shut, Cullen stepped up and demanded to ride along, a request Pick granted without hesitation.

Pavaro climbed into the driver’s seat, while his wife took the passenger side.

As for Pick and Dincom, they were ordered to remain on-site to continue hunting for "clients."

The hearse roared to life, veering down a narrow side street to bypass the traffic gridlock caused by the explosion, speeding toward the nearest hospital.

Along the way, the proprietress pointedly twisted around from the front seat to look at Cullen:

“Young man, what exactly is he to you?”

“He’s my boss.”

It was a stroke of luck that Pick and Dincom were not in the vehicle; otherwise, they might have recalled the day Alfred had addressed Cullen as "Young Master." Though, knowing those two muddled workers and their obsessive-compulsive nature as divine servants, they might just as easily have forgotten the detail entirely.

“Then do you know if your boss carries any banknotes on him that aren't Riels?”

“Lunas? Yes, he does.”

“Not Lunas...”

“We have other foreign currencies at home.”

“Not foreign currencies...”

Realizing she could extract nothing more from Karen, the proprietress had no choice but to let the matter drop.

Pavarotti, meanwhile, asked as he drove:

"You weren't on the tram when it exploded?"

"I was on the platform buying flatbreads for the boss. He said he was hungry."

"Then your luck is truly formidable."

Pavarotti had noticed the large, lingering smudge of sauce on Karen's clothes.

Alfred’s injuries were severe, for he had been far too close to the epicenter of the blast, leaving him with absolutely no time to mount a defense;

this had nothing to do with one's level of strength—if even the finest swordsman were to carelessly have his head severed, no matter how sublime his swordsmanship, he would never have the chance to display it.

Alfred’s abilities inherently leaned toward control and enchantment; physical conditioning was not his forte;

generally, those who worshiped the earth or belonged to familial belief systems that emphasized physical development would hold a slight advantage when faced with such circumstances.

The hospital arrived.

Pavarotti climbed down from the vehicle and walked to the rear carriage, where Karen joined him in lifting the stretcher-cart;

"Stand back a bit, don't push, you only need to maintain the balance."

"Oh, right, I understand."

The stretcher-cart was lowered to the ground, and the medical staff arrived swiftly, initiating the resuscitation protocols.

Karen, meanwhile, was directed to go to the payment counter first to settle the fees. As he was filling out the form, Pavarotti appeared behind him, drew two thousand Reals from his wallet, and placed them upon the counter.

"Thank you."

This expression of gratitude came from the very depth of Karen's heart.

Pavarotti let out a brief, dry chuckle and said:

"Let us hope they can pull him back. Well then, I am returning to the accident scene to pick up more fares."

After a moment's hesitation, Pavarotti drew a business card from his wallet and handed it to Karen.

"Please rest assured, I shall reimburse you for the fare and this advance immediately."

"No, if the funds prove insufficient, contact me." Pavarotti finished speaking and cast a disdainful glance at the sign above the payment counter. "The hospitals of York City are nothing but bloodsucking vampires kept by capitalists."

Having delivered his curse, Pavarotti turned and took his leave.

With the fees paid and the receipt in hand, Karen went first to the hospital telephone, dialing the number to his home:

"Woof!"

"Put Purr on the line."

"Woof!"

"Where is Sily?"

"Woof!"

"Is no one at home? Are you the only one there?"

"Woof!"

"Alfred has been injured and hospitalized at Conio Hospital. Go to his bedroom and see if you can find any cash, then wait for Sily to return and have her bring it over."

"Woof!"

He hung up the telephone.

The woman knitting a sweater before the telephone apparatus said without even raising her eyes:

"Two Reals for the call."

Paying the fee, Karen walked to the entrance of the operating theater and seated himself upon a bench.

Roughly half an hour passed before the doors of the operating theater were pushed open, and the doctor stepped out, removing his surgical mask.

"Doctor, how is he?"

"We have pulled him through. Though the wounds have been dressed, the area of the burns is extensive, so he is not yet out of danger. We shall transfer him to the intensive care ward first for continued observation."

"Very well, thank you, Doctor."

Alfred was wheeled out; by now, he was already capable of opening his eyes.

Karen accompanied Alfred into the ward, just as a massive influx of other casualties from the accident began arriving, and the hospital dissolved into a state of immense chaos.

This was the benefit of an early arrival; had they been late or arrived at a normal hour, they would have been forced to wait.

Once in the ward, the nurse hooked Alfred to an intravenous drip, instructed Karen on what to monitor, and then departed.

"Young Master..."

"How do you feel?"

"It is no great matter..." Alfred spoke with a touch of apology. "Mainly, I did not anticipate that they would have explosives concealed within their garments."

Had Alfred been granted even ten seconds more to react, he would never have fallen into such a plight.

"Your luck was simply poor," Karen remarked.

"Yes, I happened to step right into that particular cadence, and the blast knocked me unconscious. Yet, in truth, I awoke while inside the hearse, but I feigned unconsciousness throughout, fearing the Inquisitor might perceive something. He claimed I was a priest, heh heh heh."

"You can still find the will to laugh."

"Fortunately, I had inscribed upon myself the minor array from Mr. Hoffen's notes. As I am now, there is no scent of an aberrant demon upon me."

Karen lifted Alfred's blanket, gazing upon the vast stretches of bandaged skin, particularly across the front of his chest, and asked:

"Can you manage as Mistress Molly did?"

"In theory, there would be no issue."

"Then all is well."

"Yet I still hope this body can be preserved to the greatest extent possible. Mistress Molly's method, in truth, places a limit upon one's development and the realization of one's talents."

"What is the reasoning behind that?"

"It is much like drinking wine... alcohol's damage to the physical body is irreversible, yet when one is caught amidst ice and snow, a few swallows of wine can help warm the frame; it remains harmful to the body, yet under those specific circumstances, the benefit outweighs the harm.

The bodies of we aberrant demons are precisely the same. The notes left by Mr. Hoffen stated that the world is divided into two kinds of aberrant demons: those born naturally, and those humans who become aberrant demons after being contaminated.

I belong to the latter category, and therefore, a moderate degree of contamination can stimulate and develop the body's potential, and can even be controlled, effecting a sort of... evolution upon oneself.

This is the process of ascension proper to an aberrant demon, and throughout this process, the original body remains the most fitting. At the very least, one must endeavor to maintain as many of the original bodily parts as possible; otherwise, we risk losing ourselves, or increasing the difficulty of further evolution.

This is likely... the reason Mistress Molly chose to remain in Lua City rather than follow us to Vien, for she understood that once she fused with that body, her upper limit was essentially fixed.

However, what she failed to anticipate was that there actually existed another path, which is the birth of faith toward you, Young Master.

Heh... though, given her intelligence, it would be quite difficult for her to achieve that in any case."

"But this current body of yours, if you do not replace its components, will find it difficult to sustain itself further."

"My capacity for recovery is stronger than that of ordinary men," Alfred said.

Having spoken, Alfred closed his eyes and began to "perceive" the condition of his body. Shortly thereafter, he opened his eyes, speaking with a trace of helplessness:

Oh, heavens, the burns this time are far more severe than I had anticipated; it seems this body will be hard-pressed to endure any longer.

With such extensive burns, an infection is almost an absolute certainty; even in the advanced medical landscape of later generations, handling this situation would, more often than not, be left entirely to the whims of fate.

Of course, as for Alfred, he had no need to fear "death" itself, but this body was simply one he could no longer continue to use.

"A purified corpse, is it?" Karen asked.

"Yes."

"I understand. I shall contact Allen Manor shortly and have them arrange for its delivery."

"But wouldn't that disrupt your training steps, Young Master?" Alfred inquired.

Alfred was well aware of the reason why Karen had departed from Allen Manor in the first place.

"Circumstances have changed, and I cannot allow anything to happen to you," Karen spoke with an unruffled calm.

"Young Master, it was my own mishandling of the situation; I shouldn't have ventured to the front at that moment. I still lack the practical experience of being a bodyguard."

"Your handling was without fault; it was merely an instance of ill fortune."

When the two gunmen ahead opened fire upon the ordinary citizens, Alfred stepping forward to "control" them was entirely the natural course of action.

After all, who could have foreseen that they would harbor lit sticks of dynamite beneath their garments.

"Would you care for some water?"

"There is no need, Young Master."

"Then I shall make the telephone call, to have the people from the Allen family arrange your transfer to another hospital and your subsequent treatment."

"My gratitude, Young Master."

Karen rose to his feet, stepped through the ward door, and made his way toward the hospital telephone.

As he traversed the corridor, Karen suddenly caught the distinct sound of barking echoing from the hospital courtyard.

Stepping to the windowsill, Karen cast his gaze down into the courtyard and discovered a golden retriever, a small satchel slung across its back, barking incessantly while the hospital security guards attempted to corner it.

Kevin?

Karen immediately leaned out, waving his hand toward the ground below.

Kevin caught sight of Karen on the upper floor, instantly darting through the encirclement of guards in a swift stride, vanishing behind the flowerbed ahead before executing a rapid turn to rush straight into the inpatient building.

Forgoing the phone call for the moment, Karen arrived at the stairwell just as Kevin came bounding up the steps, presenting himself before Karen with his tongue lolling out in a bright grin.

"Are Purr and Siley not at home?"

"Woof, woof."

Squatting down, Karen unfastened Kevin's small satchel and retrieved five thousand reles from within, along with a telephone directory that recorded only a handful of numbers—one for the Inmeles residence, one for their own home, and another for Allen Manor;

Though Karen knew these few numbers by heart, the hound had indeed shown meticulous consideration.

Furthermore, the dog had clearly sprinted all the way here from the house; Karen noticed that its four canine legs were utterly caked in mud, bearing even the rubbed-raw marks of bleeding.

Karen first escorted the golden retriever into the inpatient ward, pushing the door open, whereupon the golden retriever approached the bedside where Alfred lay, tilting its head as it regarded him.

Alfred gazed back at the golden retriever,

and spoke:

"Good afternoon, Lord Evil God."

The golden retriever panted, retreating a few steps before executing a leaping stride to land upon the sickbed, resting its paws against Alfred's blanket and leaving blood-stained blemishes upon the fabric.

Karen pondered for a brief moment, then stepped forward, peeling back the blanket covering Alfred, and said:

"The area of his bodily burns is too vast, making it difficult to fully preserve this body; we must find a replacement."

The golden retriever shook its head, placing its canine paw once more upon the bandaged site of Alfred's wounds.

"You wish to inspect the wound?" Karen inquired.

"Woof."

Karen nodded, asking no questions and offering no further medical explanations; instead, he walked to the ward door first, locking it from within, before returning to begin unraveling Alfred's bandages.

Unwinding the turns of cloth one by one, the horrifying burned expanse upon Alfred's front manifested itself.

"Whine..."

Beholding this bloody and somewhat repulsive wound, the golden retriever closed its eyes, manifesting a look of sheer distaste.

And then,

the golden retriever turned its body around,

placing one of its hind legs firmly upon the bed while lifting the other hind leg to strike a posture... that any ordinary dog would assume.

Alfred's face twisted into an expression of bitterness as he muttered, "Lord Evil God, please do not jest in such a manner."

Yet Karen asked, "Is it effective?"

The golden retriever nodded its head: "Woof."

Alfred froze as well; a folk remedy involving ordinary dog urine was, of course, a deception, but the urine of an Evil God's dog... who could say for certain!

Anything touched by the word "God" would inevitably appear boundlessly mysterious!

Alfred's mind cleared instantly, and he said, "Lord Evil God, please aim true."

The golden retriever turned its head, casting a highly contemptuous glance down at Alfred lying beneath it, and then, began to relieve itself.

The fluid began to sprinkle upon Alfred's wound,

and Karen stepped forward, heedless of the soiled urine, reaching out to help Alfred turn his body so that the liquid could splash more evenly across all of Alfred's burned areas, even actively using his hand to spread it as though applying an ointment.

Alfred kept his eyes closed, his eyelids trembling.

Having finished, the golden retriever gave a shake, then leapt down from the sickbed, crouching nearby to pant heavily; it had run all the way from the house and was truly exhausted to the bone.

Karen could not spare the time to wash his hands first; instead, he quietly observed the condition of Alfred's injuries, discovering to his astonishment that the effect was remarkably swift—the originally burned areas began to turn red, and fresh, bright crimson flesh had already emerged.

"Alfred, feel it once more," Karen urged.

"Young Master, I feel the wound... it is so itchy... sss... it is truly terribly itchy..."

"Kevin," Karen called out.

"Woof!" Though utterly fatigued and spent, the golden retriever still proudly hoisted its canine head, prepared to welcome the praise.

"From now on, you are forbidden from using the restroom; you are only permitted to use a chamber pot."

"..." The golden retriever.

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