Chapter 132: Blasphemy

Chapter 132 Profanation

Rain began to fall on the drive home, and a traffic accident had occurred up ahead. A car and a truck had collided—nothing too severe, and the two drivers were negotiating in the downpour.

Because the road was temporarily blocked, Karen stopped the car to wait, rolling down the window. A few raindrops drifted inside, bringing a chilly, crisp freshness to the vehicle's interior.

"We are still a bit too weak," Karen said.

"Master, your progress is already terrifyingly rapid."

"It is not enough."

"Master..."

Karen raised his hand. "It is nothing. I am just musing at random. No need to comfort me."

"Yes, Master. In truth, I share a similar sentiment. If I could become a little stronger, much stronger, you would be able to handle your affairs with greater ease."

"Mmh, quite so. If you had been stronger during our very first encounter, perhaps I would not have escaped Lady Molly's mouth, and my soul would likely have been crushed and swallowed by her."

"By that same logic, Master, if I had been weak back then, Old Master Dis probably would not have thought much of me either."

"So, it was simply an encounter at the precise and proper time."

"It was the arrangement of fate, it was your will."

"Do you remember the first time I saw you, right there in Lady Molly's house? I was sitting by the bedside, and you appeared before me. Oh, right, Madam Hughes was just about to kill me at that moment."

"Actually, Master, I had arrived early that day, and had been standing at the courtyard gate for quite some time."

"You should have come up sooner. I was truly frightened by Madam Hughes back then. But do you know what my first reaction was upon seeing you?"

"I do not know, Master."

"I thought the way you dressed was incredibly flamboyant."

For the word flamboyant, Karen used his original language, because in that moment he felt only that single word possessed the strongest, most apt descriptive power.

Yet when that syllable fell upon Alfred's ears, it was like a sudden clap of thunder. He sharply captured that this was a word from that mysterious, ancient tongue!

Alfred grew incomparably excited. "Master, are you bestowing an epithet upon me?"

It was much like certain historical kings who would have epithets like the Mad or the Short appended to their names, or commoners with the Broken-Legged or the Scar-Faced; the addition to the name served the purpose of easy distinction.

Because many people's names were long, and to a certain extent, the rate of overlapping names was very high.

Karen replied immediately, "No, not this one. I can change it for you in the future."

"Very well, thank you, Master."

In his heart, Alfred chanted it silently several times, even experimenting with various permutations.

Flamboyant Alfred Bask.

Hmm?

Why not use it directly as a surname? After all, this was an epithet bestowed upon him by his Master. In the future, upon the murals, this word or this syllable must be painted, and it must be painted in the most prominent position!

Alfred Bask Flamboyant.

Alfred felt very satisfied.

"Pu'er and Kevin went to look for clues today. I wonder if they will discover anything."

"Master, the reason it took Mr. Pavaro so long was that he needed to search for clues to narrow down the scope. In truth, for us, finding that place is no longer difficult. The main issue lies in how to make the matter public once it is found."

"We will talk about it after we find it," Karen said.

"Yes, Master."

"Thinking about it now, it was still far quicker and more convenient last time in Luojia, following Dis as he went from door to door calling roll. This time, I have a list just the same, but I lack the ability to call roll at their doors."

"Master, is that not precisely where the interest of the matter lies? I believe before long, perhaps in just a few years, when you suddenly recall this affair, you will reminisce about your present self. You will miss this complex and winding process of solving problems and troubles while you were relatively weak. Therefore, please enjoy this happy time, Master, because even if you wish to savor it again in the future, you will not find this current feeling."

"Alfred, I feel that after staying in the hospital for a few days, you have become even more silver-tongued."

"It is because I have become even more devout."

"Heh."

"Master, would you like to listen to a song?"

"Alright, you choose one."

Alfred adjusted the car radio. A burst of static emerged from the speaker, and then, singing resounded. It was gentle and slow, carrying a faint sadness, the lyrics interspersed with a recollection of the past.

"Gone is the sunset I once watched while sitting by the river; gone is the gentle breeze I once chased among the ridges of the fields; gone are the stars I once counted while sitting on the rooftop. Only now do I realize that I have lost too many beautiful things; only now do I realize how wealthy I once was..."

"What is the song called?"

"A Letter Written to My Past Self."

Karen nodded and said, "It is rare to hear a decent song title."

The mediation ahead ended, and the two vehicles finally drove away. Karen started the car, saying as he did so, "I had originally promised Alaye to examine his son, but I was delayed tonight."

When the car drove to the entrance of the residential community, it was already nearly eleven o'clock at night.

Inside the security booth at the community gate, Alaye's figure could be seen. He had been chatting with two security guards earlier, but upon seeing Karen's car return, Alaye immediately retrieved a bag of lunchboxes wrapped in a cotton quilt from the chair beside him and carried it over.

Karen rolled down the car window.

"Master, you haven't eaten dinner yet, have you? There are meat pies, sauce noodles, and fried chicken in here, and they are still warm. There is also a bag of fruit here. Oh, Mr. Alfred, you've been discharged?"

"Mmh, I went to pick him up from the hospital," Karen said.

"Congratulations on your recovery, Mr. Alfred."

"Thank you." Alfred smiled at Alaye.

"Where is Hand?" Karen asked.

Alaye waved his hands hurriedly. "No, no, no, it is too late tonight, Master. You should get some rest early after eating something back home."

"Call the child over."

"He is already asleep, Master, heh heh."

"Wake him up. It was I who delayed the time, but the child cannot be delayed."

"Alright, Master, I will bring him over right away."

"Yes, quite right. Once I finish speaking with the boy, you, as his father, must apologize to him at the very first opportunity, and make a firm promise that nothing like this will ever happen again.

There are no true resentments between a child and their parent; you simply need to take the initiative."

"Yes, yes, yes, I understand. I will keep it in heart."

Having parked the car, they headed upstairs and entered the apartment, where Cullen found that Purr and Kevin had not yet returned.

He placed the lunchboxes on the table and opened them one by one; they were indeed still lukewarm, requiring no reheating.

Taking a pair of chopsticks from Alfred, Cullen sat down and began to eat immediately, while Alfred poured him a glass of ice water, set it aside, and joined him at the table.

Dinner concluded, Cullen let out a rather unseemly sigh of deep contentment; he had not managed a proper meal all day.

Alfred checked the time and, realizing half an hour had slipped away, murmured in perplexity:

"This Alaye—why hasn't he brought Hand over yet?"

Cullen replied, "He is deliberately giving us time to eat. Go open the door; he should be waiting out in the corridor by now."

Alfred rose, opened the door, and cast a glance outside:

"Come in."

"Right, right."

Alaye entered, leading Hand by his side.

"Hand, come with me to the study. Alfred, do we have any orange crystal left at home?"

Alfred opened the cabinet and said, "We do, Young Master. I will brew it and bring it up."

Orange crystal was a powdered drink mix, sweet and tart, tasting much like orange soda.

Ever since following Cullen, Purr’s standard of living had risen considerably; now, the creature not only demanded daily coffee and afternoon pastries, but fruit juice as well.

However, after leaving the Allen Manor, there was no longer a domestic staff to prepare fresh-squeezed juices, leaving this as the only acceptable substitute.

In the kitchen, there was a separate cupboard filled almost entirely with Purr’s exclusive treats.

Cullen led Hand up to the second floor and into his study.

Indicating a chair, Cullen said:

"Sit."

Hand sat down, yet he remained entirely "silent."

Cullen began to converse with him in sign language, offering words of counsel and comfort; gradually, Hand began to offer feedback, actively signing back in response.

The effect was promising...

Of course, the root cause was that Alaye had only subjected Hand to a single session of electroshock therapy before they returned the following day; a few more sessions, and the boy would likely have been ruined.

As a deaf-mute, the brighter and more cheerful the boy had appeared on the outside before, the more fragile his inner world actually was, for such individuals inherently lacked a sufficient sense of security in this world.

Just then, the study door was pushed open, and Alfred walked in carrying two glasses of the orange crystal drink.

"Leave the lighter."

"Yes, Young Master."

Hand's glass was hot, while Cullen's had ice cubes added to it.

Cullen took a sip; it was very sweet, easily cloying, yet it carried a flavor of nostalgia—in his past life, during his own childhood, this sort of beverage had been quite popular.

After Hand drank from his glass, a smile finally graced his face.

Cullen continued his communication with Hand, during which he tore off a piece of paper and sketched Alaye's likeness upon it.

Alaye was a middle-aged man of somewhat stout build, making him easy to draw; when he finished, Cullen noticed a shift in Hand's gaze, clear evidence that he recognized this as his father.

Picking up the portrait of Alaye, Cullen led Hand in flicking their fingers against the paper together, as though they were thumping Alaye; Hand flicked away with great delight.

It was roughly equivalent to a child holding a doll and crying out: 'Smelly Papa, bad Papa, I'm hitting you, I'm hitting you!'

At last,

Cullen took the lighter Alfred had left behind, struck a flame, and made a motion as if to burn the portrait of Alaye.

Seeing this, Hand did not wait for the flame to draw near; he instantly snatched the paper depicting his father and clutched it tightly to his chest.

Cullen smiled and nodded, extinguished the lighter, and led Hand out of the study.

Seeing his son come downstairs, Alaye—who had long since been instructed by Cullen—hurried forward, embracing his son right at the foot of the stairs, continuously guaranteeing his love in sign language while repeatedly slapping his own cheeks in a gesture of self-reproach.

Soon, the father and son clung tightly to one another, and Hand burst into tears.

Cullen escorted Alaye and his son to the threshold; Alaye poured out his endless gratitude to Cullen, while Hand regained his lively spirit, bowing to Cullen and making a special point to bow to Alfred, who had just been discharged from the hospital.

"The hour is late; get some proper rest," Cullen said.

"Then I shall trouble you no further, Young Master, Mr. Alfred. You both should rest early as well."

Just as Cullen was about to close the door, Alaye suddenly held it back and said:

"I almost forgot something, Young Master—that matter you instructed me to investigate at noon."

"Oh? Results so quickly?"

"A preliminary result, yes. There are quite a few factories in our Blue Bridge community, predominantly textile mills. These days, for ordinary people, especially illegal immigrants, finding a steady, long-term job is no easy feat; they tend to cherish the employment they have. Consequently, in most of the textile mills in the Blue Bridge community, worker turnover is quite low.

Except for one, where the turnover is remarkably high. I inquired with several friends who run labor recruitment agencies, and their feedback was entirely consistent. It is a textile mill, likely the largest in the Blue Bridge community, owned by a Mr. Tadel.

His establishment pays agency service fees every single year, relying on recruiters to help him secure illegal immigrant workers on a per-head basis. My agency friends have managed to live quite comfortably these past few years just by handling his business alone."

"And they never suspected why such a massive volume of recruitment was required every year?"

"Well, the explanation provided by the factory was that Mr. Tadel owns textile mills in Sampo City and various other cities across Wayne. Therefore, once the workers here become skilled laborers, they are transferred to supply those newly opened plants.

This rationale is actually quite plausible, given that York City harbors the highest concentration of illegal immigrants."

"Very well, I understand."

"Young Master, I shall continue to investigate further."

"No need, this is quite enough."

"Ah, truly?"

"Truly."

"Understood, Young Master."

The reason Cullen had tasked Alaye with the investigation was precisely because Alaye was a recruiter himself; for him to look into the matter with other agencies was entirely natural and would not arouse suspicion from those above.

Closing the door,

Cullen sat down upon the sofa.

"Young Master, it really is Mr. Tadel. So why did the Raphael family want to kill him? Was it because he was about to betray them?"

"Most likely. Just as the Allen family's various business enterprises have numerous captains responsible for operations, the Raphael family must follow a similar model. Mr. Tadel used the guise of textile mill employment as a cover to absorb a vast number of illegal immigrant female workers; after all, textile mills are inherently staffed by women.

As for his reasons for turning traitor... that I cannot say.

I even suspect that when he booked an appointment to see me for a medical consultation, it wasn't to relay this information to me at all. Perhaps he hoped I might help him arrive at a final resolution, or perhaps gather his courage, casting me in the role of a priest."

"Young Master, I believe we could inquire with his son. Of course, his son is surely not so easily contacted at present."

"It was difficult to contact them before, but now we can certainly make an attempt. When we do, we might intentionally leave behind some traces of the Light."

"You speak wisely, Young Master. With traces of the Light and the undeniable existence of its remnants, they will no longer expend any effort investigating us."

To smoothly advance an investigation while thoroughly erasing one's own trail, the finest method was not to conceal oneself as deeply as possible—for as the inquiry progressed, the other party would bound to notice.

Thus, the truly brilliant approach was to cast the blame onto someone else's tracks. Judging by today's events, the remnants of the Light were still a force to be reckoned with, thoroughly qualified to bear the scapegoat's mantle.

"Why haven't Purr and Kevin returned yet?" Karen murmured in confusion, noting that midnight had already passed.

"Shall I go out and search for them, Young Master?"

"No need, where would you even begin looking?" Karen shook his head. "They will likely return shortly. Let us rest first. Tomorrow, we shall visit Taddel’s textile mill."

"Very well, Young Master."

Karen stepped onto the staircase. Halfway up, he suddenly halted, turning his head to ask:

"What is the date today?"

"Young Master, today is the twenty-sixth. It is already past midnight."

"Which means yesterday was the twenty-fifth."

Karen quickened his pace up the stairs, entered his bedroom, opened the nightstand drawer, and drew out a piece of letter paper.

Alfred now stood at the bedroom doorway, inquiring:

"What is amiss, Young Master?"

"Do you remember this letter paper?"

"Of course. That was the night Purr and Kevin caught the messenger crow together and retrieved it from the bird."

"Look at it once more." Karen handed the paper to Alfred.

Alfred read it intently:

[Meeting Hall 3, Curtis Building, 2:00 PM, the 25th. The Light endures forever.]

"Yesterday was actually the day of the meeting," Alfred remarked.

Karen had never intended to go, so the letter had languished forgotten in the drawer.

"From the fact that they could control both Piaget’s clinic and his home, it is evident that the Church of the Light has gathered in quite large numbers within York City. Did we not hear that woman mention tonight that Miss Bertha is a Divine Envoy? Yet it is glaringly obvious that she is at odds with the old man who was at Piaget’s house today.

They are merely remnants converging from various places. Their lines of subordination are far from clear. Perhaps they maintain a facade of solidarity as comrades, but in reality, they each pursue their own designated tasks in secret."

"Young Master, I am still somewhat perplexed."

"Two o'clock in the afternoon was precisely the time of Mr. Taddel’s appointment. Yet at that exact hour, in the Curtis Building across from the St. Thor Tower where the Adams Clinic is located, a secret assembly of the Church of the Light was taking place.

Therefore, Mr. Taddel never had any intention of visiting the Adams Clinic for medical treatment. The place he truly desired to go was directly across from it."

"Then... does that not mean Miss Bertha knew of Mr. Taddel’s true identity all along and has been deceiving us?"

Karen shook his head and said:

"No, she has no reason to do so.

The Church of the Light is not merely suppressed in the modern world; it is an entirely banned faith. Even its ordinary believers must meticulously conceal their devotion.

This meeting, announced via black crows, resembles the clandestine rendezvous of an espionage ring. The crow likely delivered the message to a veteran believer. Upon receiving the details, the old believer would then notify the new converts he had personally cultivated, and they would attend the gathering together. It serves both as a reward for the veteran and a consolidation for the novice.

During the assembly, all attendees likely wear hooded robes to mask their features, ensuring they do not expose each other's identities. This mitigates the risk of a single breach fracturing the entire network.

Mr. Taddel has probably long endured the torment of a guilty conscience due to his past deeds. Feeling heavily burdened by sin, he encountered the Church of the Light in the recent months or years. To cleanse the transgressions of his soul, he became a follower of the Light.

When proselytizing, the old believers certainly would not candidly admit that the Church of the Light has perished and is currently hunted by the entire ecclesiastical circle—for how then could they recruit new flock?

Consequently, in Mr. Taddel’s eyes, the Church of the Light and the God of Light must have appeared infinitely grand and powerful."

"So, Mr. Taddel set out yesterday with his prepared evidence to attend this very assembly, intending to use the gathering to report this heinous matter to the Church of the Light?

However, his suspicious movements and treacherous inclinations were discovered beforehand by the Raphael family, and he was assassinated en route."

Karen nodded and said:

"Precisely. This is also why I believe Miss Bertha and that old man were oblivious to Mr. Taddel’s devotion to the Light.

Would Miss Bertha and the old man command their own follower to actively act as an undercover agent to gather evidence of the Church of Order's corruption, only to deliver it to themselves?

And then, would they take this evidence and proactively report it to the higher echelons of the Church of Order just to claim a bounty?"

"Heh..."

Alfred could not restrain a brief chuckle, though he instantly mastered his expression.

For if this had indeed been Miss Bertha’s instruction, it would be equivalent to an escaped death-row convict proactively taking proof of a sheriff's embezzlement to report the crime to that very sheriff's precinct.

"Ha."

Karen licked his lips.

"Previously, when we discussed shifting our investigative tracks onto the Church of the Light, my conscience felt a twinge of unease. Now, however, the burden is entirely lifted, for this was rightfully their affair to begin with."

...

A rainy night.

Upon an adjacent rooftop, a cat and a dog slowly poked their heads out.

On the sloping street below, five robed figures in black had cornered a solitary man.

"Pavarotti, you should not have fled. I originally thought you would discern the flaw I intentionally left for you."

"Of course I knew. Because in doing so, you could 'legally' execute me on the grounds of resisting arrest and fleeing from justice, sparing the higher-ups an investigation into the unnatural death of an active Inquisitor."

"Then why did you still choose to run?"

"Because I discovered that the Magistrate responsible for presiding over my judgment is, to my horror, also one of yours."

Tiers, the captain of the Whip of Order squad, shook his head and replied:

"No, no, no. Rather, we are his."

"Heh..."

"I know you surrendered to captivity willingly because you wished to wait for the trial to denounce us to the Magistrate. You are too naive, Pavarotti. How could we ever grant you such an opportunity?

This is fine as well; it saves me the tedious trouble of concocting and organizing charges against you.

Do you know how excruciating it was to invent crimes for you? For it is the very first time I have encountered an Inquisitor as spotless and dutiful as yourself.

In truth, had you not actively broken out of prison, you could have lingered in that cell for a considerable duration, granting you the chance to reflect and ultimately adapt."

"The moment I realized the Magistrate presiding over my trial could not be trusted, I could not bear to sit in that cell for a single day longer. The mere thought that while I languished in prison, that place was continuing to perpetrate such wickedness... it tortured my very soul."

Tiers raised his hand, and a black leather whip materialized in his palm. He sneered:

"Our grand Inquisitor turns out to be so exceedingly benevolent. Tsk tsk. You ought to have sworn allegiance to the Church of the Light; that would be far more fitting."

Pavarotti turned his palms upward, and two spheres of dark flame ignited within them, readying himself for the fray.

At the same time,

he spoke:

"What truly torments me the most is the defilement of Order by you, who claim to share the very same faith!"

Too tired, going to sleep, no update tonight.

I originally wanted to write one more chapter and publish it before going to bed, but I found I couldn't hold on any longer.

In fact, a reversed sleep schedule isn't much of a problem for me; because of my profession, I've long since grown used to it. The biggest issue is that my routine is trapped between two publishing slots; after finishing my writing, my mind is completely muddled, leaving me unable to continue working yet unable to fall asleep. By mid-to-late afternoon, drowsiness finally hits, but there is still an update scheduled for the evening, meaning I have to force myself out of bed around six o'clock to keep typing. Once this state persists, it becomes a vicious cycle—my spirit withers, my sleep shortens, and my writing condition deteriorates further.

My personal creative habits play a role in this; I like to find the right feeling before I even touch the keyboard for each chapter. Moreover, it takes about four to five hours to write a single chapter now, and I dislike keeping a backlog of drafts, preferring instead to publish each chapter immediately after finishing to share it with everyone.

Consequently, I have never been able to fix a regular update schedule, which inconveniences everyone who follows the story, and many readers are forced to stay up late along with me; this is my fault, and I apologize to you all here.

No update tonight, I am going to get some sleep, and I will get up to write once I wake.

Goodnight, everyone.