Chapter 151: Showdown (Please Subscribe!)

Chapter 151: The Showdown (Please subscribe!)

Before the door, Mrs. Lake, her weeping done, kept drawing deep, silent breaths, her mouth agape, before wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. Then, bracing herself against the floor, she clambered to her feet and walked toward her daughters' bedroom.

Behind the door, Karen stood watching.

Ah, found out after all, then.

Karen felt no real disappointment; they were a married couple who had lived together for so long, after all. It was only natural she would notice her husband had been "swapped" for another man.

Far from feeling disappointed, he felt a sense of relief and liberation.

Walking over to the desk where he had been eating earlier, Karen picked up a leftover piece of bread and began to weigh his options in his mind.

The identity of an Inquisitor for the Church of Order—he wanted that.

Karen snapped off a small piece of bread and popped it into his mouth.

The Adams psychological clinic had gone under, and he needed a stable source of income; therefore, this funeral parlor—he wanted that too.

Karen tore off another small piece of bread and put it in his mouth.

Heh.

After going around in so many circles, from Mink Street in Luo Jia City in Ruilan, to the Blue Bridge community in York City in Vienne, he had somehow ended up managing a familiar funeral business again.

It was just as well; his previous family "internship" hadn't gone to waste.

The next time he called Uncle Mason, he could tell him that his nephew had turned their own funeral parlor into a branch office.

He imagined his uncle and aunt's expressions would be quite something upon hearing the news; after all, they had left home precisely because they didn't want to carry on the funeral business, only for their nephew to run away and take up the family trade after all.

Pique and Dincombe, those two divine servants...

He wanted them too.

Purr and Kevin were limited in what they could do, Shili was just a maid, and Little John was only a child whose abilities were still unstable.

They had already run into a shortage of manpower before, to the point that Alfred had to be discharged from the hospital early, so he sorely needed two subordinates from the circle right now.

Pique was honest and easily fooled.

Dincombe had a bit of low cunning and was easy to exploit.

Karen pinched off another small piece of bread and put it into his mouth.

These three things were all he could accept, yet a large chunk of the bread in his hand still remained. This large chunk represented the roles of "father" and "husband."

Karen was willing to help Mr. Pavarotti shoulder the responsibilities of this family, such as arranging for his wife's livelihood, securing the supply of blood spirit powder for his two daughters, and managing their subsequent medical treatments.

But Karen was not willing to actually play the part of a "father" or a "husband."

Because it would be exhausting.

A mask is something you can take off at will; that which cannot be removed once put on is called a shackle.

Karen’s greatest difficulty lay in the fact that he could not proactively inform Mrs. Lake and the two daughters of his true identity. He couldn't just lay it out openly. It wasn't that he worried they would inform on him, but rather that telling them directly would make it too easy for them to leave clues in their daily lives.

Thinking back to that night in the basement, after Mr. Bed killed that member of the Order squad, he had dug out his eyes and handled the subsequent cleanup with extreme familiarity; in this world, even the dead could "speak."

Fortunately, Mr. Pavarotti's two daughters had realized he wasn't their father, and Mrs. Lake had also realized he wasn't her husband.

Yet the two daughters hadn't cried or made a fuss, and Mrs. Lake was still pretending to treat him as her husband.

This unspoken tacit understanding was best suited for the current situation, for Karen did not know how long Pavarotti's identity would serve him, and a certain degree of caution in the finer details had to be established from the very beginning.

He placed the remaining large piece of bread back onto the plate; he was already full, and being too stuffed was no good.

Picking up the wet towel on the plate, Karen first wiped his mouth, then folded it over to wipe his hands.

Did Mrs. Lake usually prepare a wet towel for Mr. Pavarotti when he ate? Looking at Mr. Pavarotti's greasy daily appearance, he didn't seem like the type of man who would love cleanliness so much.

Still, Karen couldn't be bothered to ponder where the flaw had appeared. Perhaps in Mrs. Lake's eyes, he was nothing but flaws from head to toe; the first time she pinched him, she would have felt his muscle response was wrong, or perhaps the very first look he gave her was enough to confirm the man before her was not her husband.

"Whew..."

Karen let out a long breath. Since she had already guessed it, he might as well expand the tacit understanding a bit further, if only to save Mrs. Lake from living in constant terror.

Walking to the bedroom door, he opened it and called out:

"Pique."

"Ah, Boss."

Pique ran from the front shop to the backyard.

"Call the Madam over."

"Right away, Boss."

Karen sat back down at the desk, picked up a fountain pen, uncapped it, and tapped it against his fingertips.

Suddenly, Karen couldn't help but laugh out loud. He seemed to have no talent whatsoever when it came to acting; when he first woke up, he had confidently assumed that unless his family were mad, they would never think "Karen" had been replaced.

This face had been slapped once in Luo Jia City, and upon arriving in Vienne, it had been slapped again.

Therefore, relying solely on this single identity of Pavarotti might not be entirely safe either. The best outcome would be to whitewash his original identity into the fold, so that his daily work and other matters could be handled with greater ease.

Could he do it this way?

He could recruit himself into the funeral parlor, act as his own boss, serve as his own superior, and develop an official, registered divine servant for himself?

Karen suddenly felt this idea was highly feasible.

First of all, he could face Mrs. Lake and those two daughters with greater composure. Secondly, before those two fellows, he held the identity of a Lord of the Whip of Order, which would allow him to manipulate those two fellows far more easily.

He could just pretend he was here under deep cover to spy on Mr. Pavarotti; after all, this sort of thing was exactly the business of the Whip of Order, and those two fellows had nowhere to verify it, nor would they dare to try.

But how was he supposed to secure an official registration?

Although he was "born" into a family of Inquisitors, because of Dis’s uniqueness, his own home and his Inquisitor grandfather bore no real resemblance to actual Inquisitors.

At home, he hadn't even seen such a thing as points coupons!

He was like the child of a high official whose family fortunes had suddenly plummeted, only now realizing: What? Running a red light actually requires points to be deducted?

Take it slow;

Karen could only comfort himself this way.

The bedroom door was pushed open, and Mrs. Lake walked in. Looking at the plate on the desk, she immediately snapped:

"Are you the master of the house? It's bad enough I brought the meal over to you, do you expect me to carry it back out for you too?"

Karen leaned back slightly and said very calmly, "The blood spirit powder required by the family every month—I will ensure the supply remains uninterrupted."

Mrs. Lake froze, the expression on her face turning unnatural:

"You..."

"I..."

"This family..."

She tried to speak several times, switching between several tones and inflections, but she could not find the right one. The more uncertain she became, the more panicked she grew, until the rims of her eyes turned red once more with anxiety.

She was terrified of this "husband" before her. She didn't know who he really was, and she didn't even dare to think about where her real husband was now... though she had already guessed the outcome.

But she was even more terrified that her two daughters would be cut off from their blood spirit powder.

If left entirely to her own devices, there was absolutely no hope of obtaining the blood soul powder again. Yet, as a mother, there was nothing she could not endure for the sake of her children.

"I am your husband," Cullen said. "Am I not?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Mrs. Lake nodded vigorously. "Yes, you are."

Cullen suddenly felt he had misjudged his tone. His original intention had been to offer Mrs. Lake a measure of comfort, not to strike terror into her heart.

"I have a very dear friend. I cannot recall if I ever mentioned him to you before, but he was a truly good man—responsible, thoroughly upright, and someone I deeply admired."

Mrs. Lake stared at Cullen in a mixture of shock and dawning comprehension. She understood exactly who this "husband" before her was referring to. With measured caution, she inquired softly, "That friend... where is he now?"

"He is gone."

Mrs. Lake sank onto the edge of the bed, looking as though her very soul had been drained from her body.

"That friend once implored me that should any misfortune befall him, he hoped I would help look after his family. I gave him my word. It will likely require taking on a portion of their essential monthly expenses. As for this arrangement, Madam, I trust you will not object to my taking such initiative?"

Mrs. Lake drew a sharp breath. She shook her head, then quickly nodded, stammering, "It is the right thing to do, only proper. You... you have done the right thing."

"Splendid. As long as you understand, Madam. My greatest anxiety was that you might hold a grudge against me."

"No, never. How could I?"

"Since you have given your consent, Madam, I shall see to it that his wife and children are well cared for. I will do my utmost to provide them with a stable and comfortable life."

"Thank you... No, you are doing what is right, and you have my full support."

"However, I prefer not to disturb her family needlessly. As you well know, Madam, I have only just emerged from the dungeons of the Whip of Order. My current standing makes things somewhat awkward, and I have no desire for my identity to bring an ill wind into their lives."

"They will be grateful in their hearts, truly grateful. They will also help preserve the secret."

"Very well."

Mrs. Lake hurriedly wiped away her tears, nodding rapidly. "Very well, very well."

"Madam, I have matters to attend to and must go out for a while. I shall not return tonight."

"Yes, of course, you are busy. Attend to your affairs, you have so much on your hands." Mrs. Lake rose to her feet.

Cullen stood up and walked out of the bedroom. When he reached the front shop, Pick and Dincomb both rose, inquiring, "Going out, Boss?"

"Yes, I still have a few matters to sort through. I won't be back tonight."

"Understood, Boss," Dincomb nodded.

"Boss, did you mention it to the mistress?" Pick offered kindly as a reminder.

Just then, Mrs. Lake’s furious scolding drifted from the back courtyard:

"Leaving the very moment you get back, and claiming you won't be home tonight! Why don't you just drop dead in that pastry shop, you old beast!"

Cullen smiled.

Dincomb and Pick smiled as well. Evidently, they were well accustomed to this particular dynamic between the boss and his wife.

Cullen stepped out of the funerary parlor and slid into Alfred’s car.

"Did it go smoothly, Young Master?" Alfred inquired.

"Smoothly."

"Are we heading home now?"

"Yes."

"We can finally get some proper rest, Young Master."

"Indeed. Though we must return to the parlor tomorrow morning. I need to show my face frequently during this period, cultivate a sense of presence, and wait for my exoneration."

Alfred drove into the apartment complex. Stepping out of the vehicle, Cullen stretched lazily.

The next phase of business was simply waiting to see the pace at which the Church of Order handled affairs. It was beyond his power to hasten them; he could only wait. Fortunately, everything required of him had been executed flawlessly, allowing him a proper interval to rest and recuperate.

Xili happened to emerge from the apartment to discard the rubbish. Catching sight of "Cullen" ascending the stairs, she gave a wild fling of her hand, scattering the dust from her dustpan into the air, and let out a piercing shriek:

"Oh, heavens!"

Only then did Cullen realize he was still wearing the visage of Mr. Pavaro. It was much like when one first began wearing spectacles, frequently forgetting them upon waking and stepping out the door.

Brushing the dust from his shoulder, Cullen harbored no resentment toward Xili. The maid’s professional mental fortitude was already commendable; it was he who had repeatedly and violently trampled upon her boundaries.

Cullen offered Xili a polite smile.

Xili collapsed onto the stairs, her hands gripping the edge of the staircase in sheer terror. One had to understand that before stepping out, she had just cleaned the washroom and exchanged greetings with the faceless Mr. Pavaro lying within.

Cullen initially intended to extend a hand to assist her, but observing the ample advantage of her backside, the fall seemed to have landed like an airbag against the steps, likely causing no grievous harm.

"Mind your footing on the stairs," he offered as a cursory exhortation. Cullen returned to the apartment, reverted to his own visage, and ascended to the second floor before entering the washroom, where another bath awaited him.

"Young Master, the bath towel has been laid out for you, and your clothes are prepared."

The voice of young John drifted from outside the washroom door. The boy had adapted swiftly to his new role, despite having so recently lost his father.

Emerging from his bath, young John inquired, "Young Master, do you require your dinner to be brought to your bedside?"

"No need."

Cullen descended the stairs and entered the kitchen, standing adrift for a brief moment.

He suddenly recognized a sobering reality: the only reason he had relished cooking back at the Immorles residence was because life there had been genuinely leisurely. Once a person became consumed by business, merely igniting a gas stove felt like an endeavor to move mountains.

"Are there any pastries left in the house?" Cullen asked.

Puckered on the stairs of the second floor, Purr turned her body with a touch of helplessness. It seemed that squirrel-shaped mandarin fish would not be on the horizon anytime soon.

"Young Master, I shall step out immediately to purchase some," Alfred offered.

"Very well."

Cullen retraced his steps to the second floor, looking at young John who stood waiting. "Ice water and the newspaper."

"They have already been placed upon your nightstand, Young Master."

"Who taught you that?" Cullen inquired.

"The eldest young lady, Purr."

"I see."

Cullen nodded, entered his bedroom, and stretched out upon the bed. After taking two sips of ice water, he lifted the newspaper and began to leaf through it. He was not tired at present, yet he wished to prolong this state of tranquility for as long as possible.

After a short while, Kevin trotted in, lent a paw to switch on the radio, and then retreated to his own dog bed. Purr also paced inside with deliberate strides and leaped onto the bed.

"Young Master, Mr. Alfred has returned with the pastries. Shall I serve them now?" young John inquired, standing just outside the bedroom door.

"Not very hungry, I'll eat when I get up tomorrow morning."

"Very well, Master."

Karen set down his newspaper, reaching out to stroke the head of Purr, who was currently curled up on his stomach.

Purr lifted her head and asked, "What is it?"

"Is there any way to cleanse pollution?"

"That depends on seeing the actual extent of it. The kind that affected your father... 'Karen's' father and mother, was something even Dis was powerless against.

However, you must be asking about Mr. Pavarotti's two daughters. There should be a way; at the very least, something more effective than Blood Spirit Powder."

"Good, in a little while I'll take you both to the Pavarotti Funeral Home to take a look."

"Are you taking over the funeral home then?"

"Yes."

"Fine, I get to be a funeral home cat once again."

"You don't like it?"

"It's not bad. While a funeral is being held below, I lie on the balcony soaking up the sun. In that moment, I always feel the radiance of humanity flowing through me. Do you understand that feeling?"

"I do, just like how Kevin constantly fantasizes that he isn't a dog but an evil god."

"Woof, woof, woof!"

Purr angrily batted at the blanket over Karen with her paws, then turned her head away in a huff, ignoring him.

"Master."

Alfred's voice carried from outside the room.

"Yes."

"I just received a call from Borge. The Raphael family has been exterminated."

"Understood."

Karen picked up his newspaper again and resumed reading.

A short moment later, Purr, who had just been ignoring him, silently poked her head out from beneath the spread newspaper, staring at Karen without a word.

Karen raised the newspaper, blocking the intruding feline head back behind the pages.

Purr squeezed through once more, still silent.

Karen raised the newspaper again, blocking her out.

Then came a rustling beneath the blankets, and Purr's head emerged from under the covers, resting upon Karen's chest.

Karen looked down at her and asked:

"What are you doing?"

"Just wanted to say, thank you."

"You should thank Mr. Pavarotti, and Madam Annie."

Setting the newspaper down,

Karen fixed his gaze on the window directly ahead:

"The Cult moves so fast."

"Because to the Order Cult, the Raphael family is merely a speck of dust to be brushed from a shoulder."

"Heh."

Karen let out a soft laugh,

"Yet even for a mere speck of dust, they simply couldn't be bothered to brush it off before."

...

The following morning, after washing up and coming downstairs, Karen selected a fried dough ring from the pastries Alfred had bought yesterday, placed it in a bowl, poured in some milk, added half a spoonful of brown sugar, and stirred.

Alfred emerged from the bedroom as well;

"Would you like some?" Karen asked.

"No need, Master."

"I accidentally made too much."

"Very well, Master."

After finishing breakfast, the two went downstairs and got into the car, just in time to see Xili riding her bicycle into the neighborhood. This maid was highly dedicated to her work, arriving early and leaving late;

Yet one could tell she grew very fond of the secondhand bicycle beneath her; not only was it wiped impeccably clean, but it was also adorned with pink ribbons.

It was just that the bicycle seat was a bit small—well, the seat wasn't small to begin with, but by comparison, it appeared much smaller.

Regardless, seeing a maid full of vitality toward life and courage toward bizarre work early in the morning made one feel a sense of positive inspiration.

As she passed the car, Xili noticed the occupants and immediately stopped her bicycle, running over;

Karen rolled down the window;

"Master, Mr. Alfred, good morning."

"Good morning."

After the greeting, Alfred started the car.

"Oh." Karen touched his ring, a flash of purple light washing over him as he transformed into Pavarotti, "Better put the mask on now, lest I forget when stepping out of the car."

"Master, for dinner tonight, do you need me to..."

Xili turned back to ask about dinner, only to see Mr. Pavarotti sitting in the passenger seat.

"...have it ready, Mr. Pavarotti!"

"Please do, thank you for your hard work."

"No... it's no trouble at all."

Alfred drove the car out of the neighborhood;

Since it was all within the Blue Bridge community, the distance was short, and before long, the car pulled up to the curb outside the funeral home.

"Master, look over there."

"I see it."

A black sedan was parked ahead, and two individuals dressed in black robes stepped out—outfits that were unmistakably the "civilian attire" of the Order Cult personnel.

Karen got out of the car and walked over on his own initiative.

The other party noticed Karen as well, and one of them asked:

"Sir, excuse me, is this the Pavarotti Funeral Home ahead?"

Karen glanced over, realizing that because the black gauze from the last funeral had not been removed from the original storefront sign, it was obscured from view.

It was also because after Mr. Pavarotti's accident, the family had been thrown into a panic, leaving them no peace of mind to attend to such matters.

"Yes, that's right. May I ask what brings you here?"

The other robed figure smiled. "Mr. Pavaro, the owner of this funeral parlor, sacrificed his life in an act of bravery. We are here on behalf of the police department to deliver his commendation and death benefits."

"Oh, is that so? That is truly sorrowful news," Karen said.

"No, it is a matter of great honor," the robed figure corrected.

"Yes," Karen amended immediately. "An immense honor. Let me take you inside; I am quite familiar with this funeral parlor."

"Heh, very well. You are truly a helpful soul. May I ask your name?" the robed figure inquired with polite, albeit perfunctory, courtesy.

"Oh, my name is Pavaro."

—

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There will be another chapter tonight.