Chapter 147: New Identity

Chapter 147: A New Identity

Alfred removed his overcoat, folded it in half, and held it up beside Cullen.

Cullen placed Mr. Pavarotti’s visage upon it, and Alfred meticulously wrapped the flesh of the face with his own garment.

A perpetual wind blew softly, scattering withered branches and fallen leaves over Mr. Pavarotti’s body.

The faceless head did not seem terribly frightening, for the subconscious knew precisely what manner of man Mr. Pavarotti had been. How could anyone remain on guard against or fear such a soul?

Even Pu'er, upon seeing him, had spoken directly without the slightest hesitation, having also read the notebook.

"Young Master, I believe Mr. Pavarotti was worried you wouldn't use his face and would simply give his body a proper burial after his passing. That is why he took it upon himself to tear it off beforehand."

"Go and bring the car around. We can go home now."

"Very well, Young Master."

Alfred ran off to where the car was parked, returning with it a short moment later.

Cullen helped move the remains. He initially intended to lift Mr. Pavarotti up, but the man's kneeling posture seemed frozen in place, his knees as though pinned to the earth.

Yet, to have Alfred carry Mr. Pavarotti directly in this position, letting him kneel in the back of the vehicle all the way home, felt entirely disrespectful.

"Young Master, Mr. Pavarotti was apologizing to you for imposing his moral coercion upon you."

Someone had once come to his door, offering a bountiful monthly supply of Blood Spirit Powder so that his two daughters could live lives resembling those of normal people. The only condition was that Pavarotti cease his investigation into the matter, but Pavarotti had refused.

Every night, he could only stand at the door of his daughters' bedroom, listening to them bury their faces in their pillows to stifle the sobs born of unendurable, agonizing torment;

He watched his once-gentle wife grow increasingly volatile;

He was not an unfeeling man; he had simply clung fast to his loyalty to Order, strictly maintaining the moral compass of his own inner alignment. Yet in his heart, he had always carried a profound guilt toward his family.

Therefore, this was likely the most coercive act he had ever performed in his life—wishing for his family to receive Cullen's care.

Though he had spoken to Cullen several times in the washroom about the benefits of using his identity, there were bound to be inconveniences alongside those advantages. After all, Cullen could have obtained a fresh identity through the Allen family's channels to enter the Church of Order.

Tearing off his own face willingly was to deny Cullen any chance of regret; kneeling to offer it was a plea for Cullen to forgive this final moral coercion.

Cullen leaned down, looking at Mr. Pavarotti, and said in a low voice:

"Mr. Pavarotti, thank you for granting me this identity. It truly helps me immensely. I will take good care of your family. After all, you once helped me cover my surgical expenses."

Alfred attempted to exert strength once more. Strange as it was, Mr. Pavarotti’s knees suddenly bent naturally.

Thus, Alfred successfully settled Mr. Pavarotti into the back seat, keeping him in a seated position. Little John sensibly climbed into the back as well, helping brace Mr. Pavarotti to prevent the body from slipping down.

Pu'er and the Golden Retriever also slipped into the car, leaving Cullen alone outside, gazing at the spot where Mr. Pavarotti had previously knelt.

Cullen could not quite understand why a man who defended Order until his dying breath still had to be so humble after death.

If this world were devoid of gods, it would actually be easier to comprehend; yet, it just so happened that gods did exist in this realm.

It was precisely because gods existed that seeing this scene caused a smoldering anger to burn in his chest, an intense urge to curse aloud.

At this moment, Cullen finally understood to some extent what kind of emotion his grandfather felt when he used to curse the God of Order.

It was not, as he had initially thought, that his grandfather possessed such immense power that he began to despise the divine;

Rather, it was because that very grandfather, who had once firmly believed in and worshiped the God of Order, had watched with his own eyes as his son and daughter-in-law struggled and suffered amidst the corruption.

When those above made mistakes, being fellow humans, one could actually understand a tiny bit of it amidst the resentment.

But the problem was, those above were gods.

If there was no difference whether those above were men or gods,

Then by what right did you, a god, sit up there with a clear conscience, accepting worship and offerings that transcend humanity?

Where is your... face?

Alfred sat in the driver's seat, offering no rush to his young master.

After a brief wait, the young master finally walked over, opened the door, and took the passenger seat.

Alfred started the engine, and the car audio automatically began to play the same music from their journey here. Alfred moved to turn it off, but seeing that Cullen did not frown, he stayed his hand and continued driving.

Just as many people as when they arrived, so many returned; not a soul was missing.

After all, Mr. Pavarotti was already a dead man, and now, was he not still a dead man?

One thing was certain, however: the events of tonight would inevitably trigger a series of upheavals. The scale of this turmoil might be minor, perhaps nothing of consequence to the entities within those two pillars of light;

But to the lower echelons involved in this matter, it was nothing short of an avalanche.

The personnel associated with Inquisitor Zih's faction would surely be investigated and purged, and the Raphael family, who served at the very tail end to execute actual control... would likely cease to exist.

The formidable enemy that had once made the Allen family tremble with the fear of imminent annexation was about to exit the stage in this manner. From a bystander's perspective, it even seemed somewhat farcical.

Yet looking down once more at Pu'er, who was dozing on his lap, and recalling her past action of stealing the finger of the God of Light from her family, a new understanding seemed to dawn.

The Raphael family clung to the church for the sake of growth and prosperity, willing to become the cat's paw for the factions beneath it, only to be wiped out overnight;

The Allen family dawdled along like frogs in warming water, waiting around to die, yet they were not dead yet...

You mock the tortoise for crawling slowly, yet the tortoise lives to see your grandson laid in his coffin.

This, perhaps, was inherently a different philosophy of survival.

When the car drove into the apartment complex, dawn had already broken.

Alfred wrapped Mr. Pavarotti tightly in the clothes and carried him upstairs on his back, encountering no neighbors along the way.

Siri, ever dutiful in her work, had already arrived at her employer's home. When the door opened, she was inside cleaning. When she witnessed Alfred placing Mr. Pavarotti's body into the ground-floor washroom alongside Madame Anne;

She blinked hard, then continued mopping the floor, murmuring:

"This gentleman looked so gravely ill yesterday. How pitiful, failing to last through the night."

Cullen showered first in the second-floor bathroom, changing into a set of clean clothes Siri had left in the basket by the door.

Ever since Alfred was discharged from the hospital and the maid had returned to work at the house, life had indeed become much simpler and easier. At the very least, he did not have to wash his own clothes, and the household cats and dogs no longer had to hang laundry out to dry.

Descending the stairs, Cullen sat at the table.

Siri brought over hot milk and pastries, and Cullen began to eat. He was thoroughly exhausted and deeply sleepy; in such a state, a person rarely felt hunger, but he still had to force himself to consume something.

"Young Master, will you take a proper rest in a moment?" Alfred asked, approaching with a gift box.

Cullen shook his head and said, "Drive me to the Lemar Pottery Workshop in a moment. I fear that delaying too long will waste Mr. Pavarotti’s good intentions."

Even the reattachment of a severed finger required strict adherence to timing; Cullen was uncertain whether fashioning a mask from a visage carried similar requirements, but most matters favored a degree of "freshness."

"Very well, Young Master."

"Mr. Alfred, let me wash that overcoat for you. It's all soiled."

"Ah, wait a moment." Alfred reached out to open his overcoat, which Siri held in her hands, retrieved the human face from within, and placed it inside the gift box he held. "There, go ahead and wash it."

"..." Siri.

Alfred sat down, pouring himself a glass of milk, and asked as he drank:

"Young Master, you need to look after your health."

"Once this period passes, it will be fine," Cullen said. "There is no alternative right now."

Cullen remembered that it seemed to have been quite a long time since he had last opened his black notebook to write anything inside.

Once the business at hand was wrapped up, he would grant himself a holiday… well, it was not as if he hadn't just lost his job anyway.

Having finished breakfast, he checked the time; it was half-past seven, still the thick of the morning rush hour.

“I’ll catch forty winks on the sofa. Wake me at nine.”

“Very well, Young Master.”

Karen settled onto the sofa and closed his eyes.

In that drift between slumber and waking, he felt a blanket being drawn over him, and opening his eyes, he saw it was Sily.

“Forgive me, Young Master, I did not mean to disturb you.”

Karen turned his head toward the wall clock; an hour had already slipped away.

“Young Master, your eyes are dreadfully bloodshot, it is quite alarming. You really ought to go upstairs to the bedroom and rest properly.”

“No more sleep for me. There is work to be done; how else am I to afford a maid if I do not work?”

It was a jest on Karen’s part, yet Sily took it strictly to heart, blurting out, “Young Master, my wages can be halved, or even reduced further if need be.”

“I was only joking.”

“But I am earnest, Young Master. Before this, my family intended to marry me off to secure my brother's schooling and ease the household burden. I refused to wed, so some cousins I get on well with and I planned to follow a recruitment notice and take up work at the textile mill.”

“Oh? And when was this?”

“Had you not employed me, I should likely be working at the textile mill by now. Those cousins of mine have already gone to their posts.”

Karen nodded, pressing no further.

Just then, hearing the murmur of voices, Alfred stepped out.

Rising from the sofa, Karen walked into the ground-floor washroom to splash his face with water, then cast a glance toward Madam Annie and Mr. Pavaro, who lay within the preservation array, and offered them a quiet greeting:

“I am heading out.”

He walked downstairs and climbed into the car.

As Alfred cranked the engine, he spoke up, “Young Master, if it weren’t for us, I fear Sily might now also be…”

“Perhaps she would have gone to a perfectly legitimate textile mill.”

“Upon our return, I could make inquiries with those cousins of hers…”

“There is no need for inquiries.”

“My apologies, Young Master. I merely feel that the consequences of our deeds are so clearly reflected before our eyes, and it is a comforting sensation.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then, Young Master…”

“I only fear you might grow addicted to it—ha, and I fear the same addiction for myself.”

“You speak with great wisdom, Young Master. I understand.”

As the automobile journeyed on, Karen had intended to lean back against a cushion and snatch a little more sleep, yet drowsiness eluded him now, leaving him only to gaze silently at the landscape drifting past the window.

Perhaps Mr. Pavaro, when he sat in this very car, had looked upon the scenery outside the window in just such a manner.

A sudden sense of beauty washed over Karen, for he knew that much of his own scenery remained to be seen; this road was still exceedingly long, barring any unforeseen mishaps.

As the car rolled between the Saint-Thor Mansion and the Curtis Building, Alfred inquired:

“Young Master, do you wish to stop by the clinic once more?”

“No, let us consider me to have fled as well.”

The car traversed another street, finally coming to a halt on the road outside the Lemar Pottery Gallery.

“Young Master, shall I accompany you inside?”

“No need, I shall go in alone.”

Karen rolled down the carriage window and inspected his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Young Master, are your eyes bothering you?”

“They are fine. I am merely anxious that they are so red the proprietor might mistake me for an Aberrant the moment I cross the threshold.”

Box in hand, Karen stepped out of the vehicle and pushed open the door to the gallery. The storefront itself was modest, yet the interior opened up generously—naturally so, for few people would wander into a pottery gallery on a casual stroll, making the size of the facade of little consequence.

The display cases within held numerous ceramic pieces, primarily small trinkets designed for appreciation and touch rather than utility; one could hardly afford a shopfront in a commercial district by relying on practical wares for profit.

A middle-aged man with a thick beard sat inside, applying color to a clay figure shaped in the likeness of an old man.

Sensing a presence, he offered a perfunctory greeting without lifting his head:

“Good day.”

Karen approached, his gaze settling on the clay figure.

The bearded man remarked, “Commissioned by an elderly lady, crafted after a photograph of her husband.”

“She must miss her husband dearly.”

“Oh no, her husband is quite alive.”

“Oh? Then their affections must run deep.”

“Haha, the old lady previously commissioned a whole crate of twelve here, yet less than half a month passed before she placed a new order. Every time she quarrels with her husband, she smashes a figure of him to vent her spleen.”

“To still possess such passion is a form of devotion in itself.”

“I rather like that perspective.”

The bearded man finally set down his brush and looked up at Karen.

“Lemar. As you can see, I am the proprietor here.”

“Karen.”

“And what is your profession, Mr. Karen? You look terribly fatigued, particularly about the eyes.”

“I have just lost my job; I am currently unemployed.”

“Ah, no wonder. Unemployment breeds sleeplessness, and anxiety reddens the eyes.”

“Heh.”

“Are you here to browse, or have you business with me?”

“Business.”

“Very well. What would you care to drink, black tea or coffee?”

“Coffee.”

“Then pray wait a moment.”

While Lemar went behind the counter to prepare the beverage, Karen noticed another figurine resting upon the workbench before him. It was discernibly meant to be a man, yet the facial features were rendered so abstractly that it seemed the product of a deficient hand.

“Your coffee; ha, that is my sister's work, the man of her dreams.”

“A man of dreams indeed.”

“Hahaha!”

Lemar caught Karen's underlying meaning and immediately burst into laughter.

"You mustn't let her hear those words; she actually has to look at this clay figurine to fall asleep at night. But thankfully, she isn't here right now—she's out shopping, preparing to engineer our next accidental encounter."

Karen suddenly felt he could recognize who the clay figurine was supposed to be;

And then he felt the figurine had been crafted to look even uglier.

"You may state your business now, Mr. Karen."

"A friend told me that you excel at making masks."

Lemar took a sip of his coffee, smiled, and gestured for Karen to continue.

"I would like to ask you to make a mask for me."

"I rarely make masks for strangers because I never know what they intend to use them for. Perhaps you could let me get familiar with you first. Why don't you tell me if the friend who informed you of my shop was once a customer of mine?"

"Not exactly."

"Oh, then whose mask are you planning to make?"

"The very friend who told me about your shop."

"Tsk, what a wonderful friend."

"Regarding the compensation, we can negotiate."

"There is no rush to discuss the compensation just yet. I would like to see your friend's... face first."

"Alright, it is right here."

Karen placed the gift box on the workbench and opened it, revealing Mr. Pavaro's face inside.

"I know him." Lemar looked at Karen and asked, "Are you planning to craft his mask to infiltrate the Order of Order?"

"Yes."

"What deep and bitter hatred do you harbor against the Order of Order that drives you to intercept and usurp his identity? In a strict sense, he is a rather excellent Inquisitor."

"As I said, he and I are friends. It was his wish that I do this."

"Oh, is that so?"

Lemar extended his index finger, touched the facial skin, and closed his eyes;

Very quickly, he opened them and said, "It seems what you said is indeed true. I can feel that he gifted this face to you with a sense of willingness. For mask-making, having this kind of gentle, proactive emotion embedded within reduces the difficulty by a full fifty percent."

"So, you are willing to..."

"No, I am not willing. I wonder if you are aware that I dislike the Order of Order?"

"I am aware."

"Reasonably speaking, since I dislike the Order of Order, helping those with ulterior motives infiltrate them would seem like a very natural choice of personal inclination. But the problem is, if your identity is exposed, it will bring tremendous trouble upon me.

I do not want that trouble, and I hope you can understand."

"Perhaps we can discuss the specifics further."

"There is nothing to discuss. This is not a matter that can be resolved with Riels or coupons."

Just then, the door to the pottery gallery was pushed open, and Selena, wearing a red trench coat and sunglasses, walked inside. Upon seeing her brother and the person standing beside him, she froze.

Then she immediately yanked off her sunglasses,

And cried out in pleasant surprise:

"Oh, oh my goodness! Are you here to see me!"

Lemar pointed at his own face and said:

"No, he came to see me."

"..." Selena.

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