Chapter 156: Bloodthirsty Aberrant Demon!

Chapter 156: The Bloodthirsty Demon!

"Those tools of the Whiplash of Order have minds as narrow as herrings packed into a tin!"

Upon hearing Karen’s recount, Alfred could not help but curse.

"Actually, this works out quite well. I only need to pretend that I consider myself one of them. It might even prove convenient for explaining things should any future troubles arise."

"Young Master is, as always, deeply farsighted."

"Very well, we can return to the funeral parlor now. This time, there is no need for a mask. You have no idea how awkward it felt, chatting with Mrs. Lake every day while saddled with Mr. Pavaro's face. Though, I suppose Mrs. Lake must have felt far more awkward still."

"Understood, Young Master."

The secondhand black Purns coasted along the highway. As it traversed a certain street, traffic ground to a halt due to a crowd gathering ahead, forcing Alfred to bring the vehicle to a stop and wait.

Karen recalled his very first day in York City, taking a carriage from the docks toward Allen Manor, when Mrs. Jenny had remarked that rallies and marches were akin to a form of recreational pastime here, utterly commonplace.

After a brief wait, the vehicles ahead began to advance. Alfred restarted the engine and drove forward a short distance, whereupon Karen spotted a procession of people marching along the roadside. They were draped in stark white robes, their heads cloaked in tall, pointed white hoods that bore only two small slits for the eyes. In their hands, they carried not banners or placards, but burning torches.

They did not chant slogans in unison; instead, they marched in an unsettling, silent serenity.

Karen murmured in puzzlement, "They do not seem to belong to any church."

Though the display possessed a heavy religious air to an ordinary observer, Karen, as an initiate of the occult world, could plainly discern that this was by no means a procession organized by any orthodox faith.

"Indeed, they bear no resemblance to a church flock. They look more like some sort of enthusiast society. Young Master, would you like me to investigate?"

"If you can spare the time, look into them. Once you drop me off at the funeral parlor, head to Lemar’s pottery studio first to settle the payment for the last batch of blood-spirit powder. Furthermore, if Lemar has replenished his stock, purchase some more to keep on hand.

Afterward, visit the black market and procure two scrolls for Purr and Kevin.

Once those tasks are complete, you may investigate this society."

"As you wish, Young Master."

"Ah, yes." Karen placed the ring, which he had accidentally snapped in two, into the empty slot beside the handbrake. "Remember to glue this back together."

"I shall keep it in mind, Young Master."

The car pulled up before the entrance of the Pavaro Funeral Parlor. Karen stepped out, waved a brief hand to Alfred, and walked inside.

Alfred took the fractured Ring of Order into his palm, a wry smile gracing his lips as he muttered to himself,

"The current Whiplash of Order is, it seems, truly made of plastic."

...

The shop remained exactly as it always was. Pick sat idly in his chair, staring into space, while Dincom leafed through a book.

In truth, Karen's dissatisfaction with the two of them had been brewing for a long while. If before it was merely because they were somewhat indolent, then discovering last night—when he returned with Mrs. Lake—that these two had actually abandoned the owner's two sick daughters at home just to clock out early meant it was no longer a simple matter of laziness.

Karen understood their mindset. Mr. Pavaro had remained a seventh-class Inquisitor for so long that they believed there was simply no future in following him, choosing instead to merely drift along.

To understand, however, did not mean Karen was willing to extend them his sympathy.

The moment Karen materialized within the shop, Pick was the first to look up, his eyes widening in shock.

Dincom followed suit, turning his gaze toward Karen, his mouth falling open in sheer astonishment.

"Is Mr. Pavaro in?" Karen inquired.

Pick and Dincom instantly bolted to their feet. "M—My Lord."

Dincom, recovering his wits faster, added hastily, "My Lord, the boss has gone out on official business. Were you seeking him?"

He dared not state plainly that the boss had gone to take on private work, for he knew the boss accepted commissions not only from the Church of Order, but from other faiths as well.

Karen offered a mild smile as he produced his divine servant certificate, tossing it onto the counter before Dincom. Pick leaned over to steal a glance.

"I am the newly reported divine servant. From now on, I am just like you. I ask for your kind guidance."

"H—How is that possible!" Pick cried out in disbelief.

Dincom stared blankly at the document, then back at Karen. "My Lord... is this genuine?"

"It is genuine. Henceforth, I am also an employee of this funeral parlor. Given that your tenures here exceed mine, you are both my seniors."

"Is that true?" Pick asked.

Dincom immediately bowed his spine, handing the certificate back to Karen with both hands as he repeated, "We would not dare, My Lord, we would not dare."

"Heh."

Karen let out a soft laugh, his eyes sweeping across the floor and the walls before he spoke. "A great deal has transpired in the Blue Bridge community of late. Though the matters have been resolved, the higher-ups place immense importance on this sector. Consequently, the operations of the Blue Bridge community tribunal will differ somewhat from other locales hereafter.

Mr. Pavaro is already aware of this arrangement. I am uncertain if he left you any instructions before his departure."

"Yes, yes, he did. We knew a newcomer... ah, no, an esteemed lord was arriving, but we truly did not expect it to be you in person," Dincom said, his tone dripping with sycophancy.

"Yes, yes, exactly," Pick nodded vigorously in agreement.

They had previously promised their boss that they would properly educate the novice and establish some house rules. Now, naturally, they dared not harbor even a shred of such a thought.

"The floor is far too soiled, and the walls are filthy. I happen to be a fastidious man; I despise a chaotic and dirty environment. It is much like how my eyes cannot tolerate a single grain of sand."

"Please rest assured, My Lord, we shall clean it at once!"

"We will begin scrubbing this very moment!"

Karen continued, "I care not how Mr. Pavaro managed this place in the past, but since I am here, everything must conform primarily to my thoughts and my standards.

The next time I catch the two of you sitting here with nothing to do, I expect it to be because there truly is no work left. If I discover that tasks remain unfinished or poorly executed, then I shall have to question the loyalty of your faith to the God of Order."

These words sent a sudden chill racing down the spines of both Dincom and Pick.

They might not care about their performance reviews, but they certainly cared for their lives. Within the divine church, having one's faith questioned carried catastrophic consequences.

"Get to work."

"Yes, sir!"

"Understood!"

The two indolent clerks instantly threw themselves into their labors.

Karen strode into the backyard. Within the workshop, he spotted Mrs. Lake, who sat upon an inner chair, tidying her cosmetics box.

Catching sight of Karen as he walked in, she froze for a moment before quickly rising to her feet, asking automatically,

"Has something happened to my husband again?"

The words had barely left her lips when she suddenly remembered that her husband was already dead.

Yet, a fresh wave of anxiety instantly gripped her. Had something happened to *him*?

"Bring a glass of ice water to my study."

Leaving those words behind, Karen stepped into the study.

The room had been newly rearranged; a standing lamp had been added, the wardrobe had been moved away to make room for a bookshelf, and a fresh carpet adorned the floor.

Karen walked behind the desk, sat down, and picked up Mr. Pavaro’s journal to resume his reading.

Before long, Mrs. Lake pushed open the door and entered with a tray. She first placed the ice water before Karen, followed by a substantial sandwich slathered heavily in sauce.

Karen, who was no longer playing the role of her husband, finally allowed a genuine smile to touch his lips as he said:

"In truth, I do not particularly care for this kind of sauce."

"I am sorry, I will bring something else next time."

"Mm, next time just prepare some biscuits, there is no need to go to such trouble."

"Very well, I shall remember."

Karen raised his water glass and took a sip.

"Are you... are you truly... truly yourself?"

The words stumbled out like a tongue twister.

"It is me."

"Unbelievable, that my husband's friend would be you..."

"There are things I cannot conveniently explain for the moment, but did we not already reach an understanding a few days ago?"

"Yes, yes, I understand. Everything here is for you to decide."

"Mm."

Mrs. Lake walked out of the study.

Karen lit a cigarette, leaving it inverted on the ashtray as before, and continued to read the working notes.

Once again, he lost all track of time in his reading.

Only when he turned to the final page of the volume in his hands did Karen reach up to massage his neck.

Leaning his body back against the chair, he looked around the study and exhaled a long breath.

Then, picking up his pen, he flipped open an unfinished notebook and wrote upon it:

"First, the study of the 'Armor of the Sea God' and the 'Blade of the Dark Moon.'

Second, to comprehend the meaning of the Inquisitor's judgment, and achieve advancement.

Third, kill Vicolai."

His immediate goals were these three.

The first was still in preparation, as Alfred had gone to purchase scrolls; until the spell scrolls were completed, there was no rushing it;

The second could not be rushed;

As for the third, if the first two were not accomplished, impatience would yield nothing.

Therefore,

He could finally take a rest now.

Karen closed his eyes, settling into his repose with a clear conscience.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door.

"Come in."

Mrs. Lake pushed open the door and stood in the doorway, asking:

"A telephone call came in, a matter of business. Pick and the others begged me to ask if you would care to go?"

"I will go."

Karen agreed immediately without hesitation;

For in his view, there was no better way to relax and unwind than driving a hearse to fetch business.

When Karen walked into the shopfront, he found the place transformed. The floors and walls had been meticulously wiped clean, and much of the greasiness he had felt upon his arrival days ago had vanished.

By now, Dincomb and Pick had already prepared the gurney, and the hearse had been driven out.

Seeing Karen approaching, Dincomb immediately vacated the driver's seat. Karen took his place in the vehicle and asked:

"Where are we collecting the guest?"

"My Lord, it is the Mangrove Apartments."

Karen remembered the location of the Mangrove Apartments. It was not far from the Allen Apartments where he resided. Alfred used to pass by it every day while driving him to work at the clinic; it was an old-fashioned apartment building of considerable age.

"In the future, you may just call me Boss, there is no need for 'My Lord'."

"Yes, My Lord," Pick said.

"Yes, Boss," Dincomb said.

Karen drove while Pick and Dincomb sat in the back. It was evident that both men were thoroughly exhausted. While Karen had been reading for nearly half the day, these two had not rested for a moment, working continuously on the deep cleaning, yet their faces were flushed with a lingering, feverish excitement.

"Who made the call?" Karen asked.

"A man. He said his wife has passed away and wants us to collect the remains."

"Did you ask him for the hospital death certificate?"

"I did. He said he has it."

"Good."

There was a security booth at the entrance of the old apartment complex, but sitting inside were two white-haired elders. Facing them, Karen did not even dare to sound the horn, fearing that a single blast might instantly send the pair of them to the hereafter.

Pick and Dincomb alighted first to pull the gates open. Karen drove the hearse inside and brought it to a halt before Building C.

Pick and Dincomb came running over, and Dincomb said, "Boss, it is 702 on the seventh floor."

Ascending to the seventh floor was rather strenuous, especially since Pick and Dincomb were lugging the gurney; by the time they reached the top, both were panting for breath.

Karen stood before the door of Unit 702. He had intended to ring the doorbell, only to find it had long since fallen away, leaving nothing but a rusted spot upon the door, so he had no choice but to knock.

*Thud...*

The door was unlocked, swinging open at the slightest touch.

"Hello, we are from the Pavarotti Funeral Parlor."

As he spoke the words, Karen found them somewhat awkward; the name of the funeral parlor would have to be changed.

"Hello, is anyone here? We are the funeral parlor responding to the call."

Karen stood at the threshold and called inward for a good while, yet there was still no reply. At the same time, he seemed to catch a faint scent of blood in the air, though he could not be certain.

"Boss, shall we go in and take a look?" Dincomb suggested.

Karen nodded and stepped aside from the doorway. Only after Dincomb and Pick had entered did Karen follow them inside.

The furniture within was also very old, though it had been swept quite clean. It was a layout of two bedrooms and one living room; there was no one in the parlor, though a plate of fruit sat upon the table.

The kitchen was empty, the pots and bowls arranged in neat order.

"Hello?"

Karen tried calling out once more.

Dincomb opened the door to one bedroom; no one was inside.

Pick opened the other bedroom door; it too was empty, devoid of life.

Only the washroom remained, located not far behind Karen, but Karen did not turn around to inspect it.

Just

Cullen looked toward Dincom, who seemed to know what Cullen was about to ask, and immediately said: "I had him repeat the location twice, and I repeated it back to him once more, confirming it is indeed this address."

"Go on," Cullen said, waving a hand at Pick.

"Thank you, boss." Pick immediately rushed toward the washroom.

When someone truly holds you in awe, even granting them permission to take a piss is worthy of gratitude.

"The family member is a man?" Cullen continued to question Dincom, though his gaze remained fixed on Pick walking toward the washroom.

"Yes, boss, it's the 'guest's' husband."

"Ahhhhhh!!!!!!"

Pick, having just stepped into the washroom, let out a piercing shriek.

Cullen silently chanted an incantation in his mind while picking up his pace alongside Dincom toward the washroom.

Pick's screaming continued, its volume merely weakening but its tone unchanged, proving he was only suffering from fright rather than being attacked.

When Cullen entered the washroom, what he saw was Pick slumped on the floor, his zipper not even pulled up;

And, behind the bathtub curtain, a woman pinned dead against the wall by a silver nail.

Two fangs protruded from the corners of the woman's mouth, her ten fingernails excessively black and long, her expression at death unspeakably hideous.

"Vampiric aberration!"

———

Caught a cold, non-stop tearing up has affected my writing state, I will try my best to adjust my state tomorrow.