Chapter 123: Would Brother Like a Piece Too?

Chapter 123 Brother, care for a slice too?

Little John's fear was not an act; he was truly terrified because he could already perceive a horrifying power slowly condensing within this office. Though it had not yet materialized, it was undeniably happening.

His original intent had been merely to play a joke on Karen, a joke that seemed quite amusing to him.

It was like a child at play, raising a water gun and splashing the other's clothes, laughing merrily. But the problem was, in the very next moment, the other party had actually pointed a real gun at him.

The dark muzzle of the gun was already pressed against his forehead.

Although he had displayed a maturity far beyond his years in their previous conversation, how many people, even true adults, could maintain their composure when faced with such a direct threat of death?

His powerful perception granted him an exceptionally clear premonition. He instinctively knelt before Karen and raised both hands.

"Dr. Karen, I was wrong, I confess, I was truly wrong! Please, I beg of you, I beg of you, I beg of you!"

However arrogant he had been before, he was just as panicked now.

There was absolutely no trace of "pride" left, only the primal instinct to survive.

In truth,

The summoning chant Karen was reciting in his heart was for the "Spear of Punishment."

It was the only offensive spell Karen mastered at this stage, capable of being hurled into the distance to trigger an explosion.

Of course, the explosion was merely one of its destructive effects. In short, the area where Karen used to practice the "Spear of Punishment"—even after the servants of the Allen Estate later refilled the soil and covered it with fresh turf—remained completely unsuited for vegetation to grow.

It was only because Karen held a very high status in the Allen Estate that the Allen family permitted and tolerated a "bald spot" being carved out of their perennially green estate.

Perhaps what Little John truly feared was not the explosion either.

Though a blast would certainly kill him, and even a single shot to a vital area would end his life,

On a perceptual level,

The other elements attached to the "Spear of Punishment" were the root cause that triggered the ultimate terror within his cerebral cortex.

Right now, the white-coated Karen sitting behind the office desk in front of him looked, in his eyes, like an inquisitor passing judgment upon him.

The terrifying threat continued to intensify.

Little John immediately pressed his hands together, facing Karen:

"Please, please, let me go, let me go! I know I was wrong, truly, I know I was wrong..."

Karen stopped the chanting in his heart. The consequence of interrupting the spell brought a tearing pain to his brain. This tearing sensation triggered a wave of spasms in muscles across his body, forcing Karen to lower his head and clench his teeth.

After a long while,

He finally overcame this intense discomfort and raised his head once more.

Perceiving that the terrifying aura of death had vanished, Little John slumped onto the floor. His originally exquisite red hair was now completely drenched in cold sweat, plastered to his scalp.

His mouth hung open, as though he were still processing the lingering horror of the moment.

"Sit properly," Karen spoke.

Little John’s legs were somewhat weak, causing him to fail several times when trying to scramble up. Yet, not daring to disobey Karen's words, he could only flounder repeatedly like a "mermaid" that had just flopped onto the shore.

Finally, gripping the chair with his hands, he managed to steady his body and climb back onto it. Gathering his courage, he turned and sat down facing Karen.

With his hands placed on his knees and his head lowered, he only dared to look at Karen through the very shallowest layer of his gaze.

Karen reached out. His ice water had been drunk by Little John, so he could only bring over the black tea, taking a sip, two sips, three sips... until he finished it.

In Little John's eyes, Karen was using this "slow-motion" approach to inflict a prolonged psychological pressure and torment upon him.

But in reality, both people across the desk were feeling miserable at this moment.

When Karen discovered that the perception Little John spoke of had appeared on his own body, he could not be certain whether it was psychological or if some unseen entity was truly pressed up against him.

To be safe,

He could only draw his sword.

After all, he could allow himself to suffer an accident, but he could not allow himself to suffer an accident without knowing why.

The only major problem was that it was not that Karen chose to use his most powerful spell right from the start, but rather...

He simply did not possess a basic attack.

Therefore, it would still be more convenient to keep a pistol in the office desk drawer. Unfortunately, this request could not be made directly to Piaget. Even for a boss with whom one shared the best of relations, it would likely be difficult to understand, let alone permit, his subordinate physician to keep a gun ready while treating patients. What exactly are you trying to do?

He would have to find a way to get one himself; he wondered if Aleya had any connections in this regard.

"Raise your head."

Little John obediently raised his head, even forcing himself to put on an innocent smile appropriate for a child of his age.

Karen recalled the words Little John had spoken earlier: "She is indeed my mother, but my mother is already dead."

After a brief moment,

He spoke:

"Your mother does not exist at all."

"Yes..."

There was no unseen woman pouring water to feed him earlier, nor did any woman exist sitting on his lap.

Little John's mother did not exist at all; everything was an illusion "manufactured" by Little John himself.

Yet, unlike schizophrenia or "seeing ghosts," he, as the "creator," was clearly aware that his mother did not exist at all.

He had merely used a reverse line of thinking to "construct" her.

That was, to make everyone around him feel that his mother was still there, allowing those around him to perceive the traces of his mother's presence, and then, from the reactions of those around him, achieve a sense of "oh, my mother is still here."

He was not deceiving himself; he was creating the atmosphere he desired by deceiving others.

So, this was likely the reason why his father, Mr. Tardel, had so hurriedly brought him to the clinic for two consecutive days, and today even arrived so much earlier than the scheduled appointment time.

Little John must have frequently used "his mother" to interact with his father.

Perhaps the one who truly needed treatment was not Little John himself, but Mr. Tardel, who had been thoroughly tormented by his son during this recent period.

"Why do this?"

"There is no deeper purpose, nor do I dare deceive you. I just felt it was... fun."

Karen rested his elbows on the desk, crossing his hands as he looked at Little John:

"You possess the ability to materialize perception? No, it is the mastery of a type of 'force.' Telekinesis?"

"I have never heard of the terms you mentioned before, but I have a feeling that your description and understanding should be correct."

"How did you obtain this power?"

"I started having this feeling during the year after my mother died, but it only began to become increasingly easy to control this year."

"Are you religious?" Karen asked.

"Father sometimes takes me to the monastery, but I know he goes there to meet his mistress."

Meaning, his family was not religious.

If it was not a religious faith, could it be a family belief system?

Yet it made no sense, for if it were a matter of a familial belief system, Taddel could not possibly have remained so utterly blind to his son’s capabilities.

Even if Young John’s mother had bestowed a cuckold's horns upon Mr. Taddel,

bearing the child of a man from such a lineage, without the crucible of a "bloodline trial," the boy could never have awakened on his own.

Though Karen dared not entirely rule out the existence of "outliers" who could stir without the trial, any system—be it of orthodox faith or ancestral blood—required a foundational "belief"; it would not manifest as it did in Young John, who used it out of sheer, unadulterated playfulness.

Thus, only a single explanation remained: Young John had been... corrupted. What sat before him now was an aberrant demon.

"When you summon this power, does any part of your body feel amiss?"

Young John pointed toward the left of his chest, where his heart lay.

"Does this count? Every time I use my power, it beats so fast—frighteningly fast."

Was it the heart?

Karen could not be certain.

If Purr, Kevin, or Alfred were present, they would surely glean far more clues from this situation than he could; no matter how fiercely he crammed theoretical knowledge into his head, true experience and worldly discernment were things that could not be forced overnight.

Silence fell over the office.

Young John dared not move a muscle, sitting there with obedient docility.

Karen himself was at a loss for words; he possessed neither the authority nor the right to dictate the boy's destiny.

"You are not, in fact, an anomaly in this world."

"Before meeting you, I fancied myself one. Now, I see clearly that I am not."

"Do you know what fate awaits you if you continue to indulge your gifts, playing with them in this mischievous fashion?

You will catch the eye of certain individuals—or rather, certain factions and cabals.

If, as you say, the wellspring of your power lies within your heart, then that heart of yours will become the very material they covet most."

Young John swallowed hard.

Karen had a premonition that this unique ability of Young John’s was on par, in terms of grade, with Alfred’s Incubus Eye.

And Alfred’s Incubus Eye was a prize even Lasma had desired to harvest; had it not been out of deference to Dis, Alfred would have been wearing a pirate's eyepatch long ago.

The world was a cold, pragmatic place; even the corpse of a priest could be recycled as raw material, to say nothing of these "aberrant demons" who bounced through society without the slightest inkling of how to conceal themselves.

No, the boy did not even realize he had become an aberrant demon.

"Your words have shattered my pride," Young John said. "It turns out I am merely a fool, shaking his hips inside the pigpen to show off the fat on his frame."

"An apt metaphor. Doesn't your family own a textile mill? Have they invested in a pig farm as well?"

"I read a great deal," Young John murmured. "Though certainly not as much as you."

"Conceal your power well, if you wish to live a long and unfettered life."

"And what of you? Are you not interested in my heart?" Young John asked.

Karen raised his teacup, took a sip, and offered no reply.

"Why... why do you not answer?"

"I am merely following your train of thought, pondering how I might utilize your heart if it were given to me."

Young John smiled. "I can feel that your answer is sincere. Though you harbored a genuine desire to kill me just moments ago—a contradiction that should feel jarring—it seems entirely natural coming from you."

"You are gifted. Quite apart from that special ability, you are sharp, and a bright future lies ahead of you. Treasure it."

Karen did not press him on why he had allowed his "mother" to inflict such things upon him; in truth, the boy had already given his answer. His mother did not exist at all. Before this, he had simply been "playing" with Karen, deriving a peculiar pleasure from the reactions he provoked.

He was different from Judia; Judia possessed a literal, rigid fanaticism, whereas he was more akin to a child wielding a blade—reveling in how grand it felt to hold, yet utterly oblivious to the havoc it could wrought upon him.

"Thank you."

Karen glanced up at the wall clock. "Our session is concluded."

"May I come to see you again?" Young John asked.

"Make an appointment."

"I will."

Young John slid from the chair and opened the office door. His father, Mr. Taddel, rushed forward instantly. At once, Young John burst into tears, throwing himself into his father's embrace.

"Father, Mother is really gone... she's truly left me. I have no mother anymore, I have no mother..."

"My boy, you still have me, you still have me."

Father and son wept in each other's arms. Because this took place right at the threshold of the office, it drew the gaze of many onlookers. To elicit such a profound catharsis from a consultation was like breaking into a heavy sweat after a fever—a highly visible success.

"Thank you, Doctor. I wish to book another session. When might we come next...?"

"Mr. Taddel, you may discuss that with the reception desk. We will arrange a time for you," Bertha said, stepping forward with a practiced smile.

"Excellent, excellent." Mr. Taddel led his son away, preparing to depart.

Wiping his tears, Young John turned back to wave at Karen.

"Goodbye, Doctor Brother."

Karen offered a polite wave in return.

Bertha closed the office door and laughed. "Do you know? The physician who received him yesterday ended up curled beneath the desk during their chat. He couldn't even make it to work today."

"The boy possesses a rather rich inner emotional landscape; it easily infects others," Karen remarked guardedly.

He feared that if he spoke too pointedly, Bertha might mistake the boy for prime material and attempt to recruit him into the cult.

That would be true madness. Even a devotion to any other orthodox church would be infinitely better than plunging into the Church of Light, where one became a "remnant" the moment they took the vows.

Bertha did not press further regarding Young John. Instead, she produced a thick envelope and placed it upon Karen’s desk.

"The boss asked me to bring this to you. It will be deducted from your salary this month."

"Understood." Karen accepted the envelope. Within it lay the funds for the car, and, presumably, his living expenses.

"The boss is truly good to you, and you are genuinely good to her," Bertha remarked, a faint hint of envy coloring her tone.

"We are friends."

"Ah, a truly enviable friendship."

Gazing at Karen’s face, Bertha’s mind drifted to the distinct aura the boss possessed while working.

As a woman, she felt a sudden pang akin to a man watching two beautiful lesbians—a sense of profound, luxurious waste.

Karen had no inkling of the thoughts swirling in Bertha's head, for he had never anticipated that this "remnant" of the Church of Light would possess such a vivid interior life.

"May I clock out now?"

"Of course. Your appointments for today are finished."

"Good."

Karen removed his white coat and gathered his belongings.

"See you tomorrow, Bertha."

"That depends on whether you have bookings tomorrow. But rest assured, your rate is quite steep."

"Alright."

Cullen stepped out of the office, foregoing another farewell to Piaget, and walked straight toward the clinic's exit. As he passed the waiting lounge, however, he slowed his pace slightly, his gaze caught by a squad of female security guards gathering for a briefing.

He recalled Alfred mentioning last time that while sitting there, one of those guards had paced incessantly before him, repeatedly brushing past him with a low-level detection spell.

Turning back, he cast a glance at the sign hanging by the clinic's entrance.

Had Piaget’s clinic essentially been transformed into a branch stronghold for the remnants of the Church of Light?

Stepping into the elevator, he glanced through the window and caught sight of the Curtis Building opposite. That was where the crows had delivered the message for the gathering last time; it truly was remarkably convenient.

Operating here by day, and conducting secret affairs across the street by night.

Mm?

Hold on.

By day, he worked within a nest of Light Church remnants, and by night, he slept in a house left behind by a former member—especially considering last night, when that very former owner had actively tried to have a chat with him. What did that make him?

Shaking his head, Cullen took the elevator down to the ground floor. Just as he stepped out of the building, he crossed paths with a tall girl of about eighteen or nineteen wearing leather boots, cradling a large bag of potato chips and eating as she walked.

Most prominent of all were the two large dollops of sauce sitting inside her bag of chips.

The Wieners truly possessed a unique infatuation with sauces; to them, any food was merely an accompaniment to the dip.

Cullen stood by the curb, preparing to hail a cab home. Barring any surprises, he would be able to drive his own car to work or the hospital tomorrow.

The tall girl came to a stop beside him, also waiting for a taxi. Her perfume carried a pleasant fragrance, a scent imbued with warmth, radiating from a body in its prime, brimming with youth and vitality.

A taxi pulled up, and the driver inquired through the window.

"Sir, Miss, are you together?"

Cullen shook his head and took half a step back, gesturing for the girl to take the ride first.

"Thank you."

The girl offered her thanks, slipped into the cab, and leaned forward to give the driver her destination. As the vehicle started up and began to roll forward, she suddenly poked her head out of the window, pinching a potato chip between her fingers, and called out to Cullen with a smile.

"Care for a chip, brother?"