Chapter 37: Business from Mine Street

Chapter 37: Business from Mine Street

The hearse drove back to Mink Street and pulled up along the curb outside the house.

The engine sputtered into silence,

his hands lingering upon the steering wheel,

and Karen felt a sudden, inexplicable affection for the machine.

After all, it was a vehicle that had cost the family a small fortune, and the sheer quality of its craftsmanship left nothing to be desired.

Mina pushed open the courtyard gate, and Aunt Mary came out to meet them, asking, "Have you eaten?"

"We ate at Sarah's house, Mother."

"And not a single phone call home to tell me," Aunt Mary grumbled gently.

"Sarah's family doesn't have a telephone."

It was then that Aunt Mary noticed the jar cradled in Karen's hands: "What is that inside?"

"Pickles, they are quite refreshing."

"Is that so? I shall try some tomorrow."

Karen returned to the third floor, heading first to the washroom to bathe.

Even in the depths of winter, he maintained his habit of bathing every single day, a routine carried over from his past life; fortunately, his circumstances in this lifetime still allowed him such a luxury.

Every evening, Aunt Mary would lay out clean pajamas upon the washroom counter, and the clothes for the following day would be placed on the bed in his bedroom—a small attention that warmed Karen's heart.

After a thoroughly comfortable hot bath, he changed into his pajamas, intending to slip down to the second floor for a glass of ice water, but after a moment's hesitation, he stepped into his own bedroom first.

Lents was sitting on his spring mattress, idling away the time with a handful of playing cards;

Karen took a seat at his writing desk,

and as if suddenly remembering something,

turned sideways to speak to his younger brother on the bed behind him:

"I almost forgot, Lents, go down and fetch me a glass of ice water, will you?"

"Of course, Brother."

Lents climbed out of bed, slipped on his slippers, and went out to fetch the water for his brother.

Karen stretched his back, reaching out for the *General History of Religion in Rielan* that Mina had borrowed for him from the library, only to find to his surprise that several other volumes had appeared in that spot—all of them theological texts as well.

"Here is the water, Brother."

"Thank you. By the way, Lents, who placed these books here?"

"Oh, I brought them from Grandfather's study."

"You took them from Grandfather's study?"

Did you actually possess the courage to sneak into Grandfather's study and steal books?

"Grandfather told me to bring them to you."

"Ah, I see."

That made far more sense.

Lents crawled back beneath the quilts, propping his head up on the pillow as he looked over at Karen, asking:

"Aren't you going to rest, Brother?"

"I am going to read a while longer."

"Are you still not planning to return to school?" Lents inquired curiously.

Perhaps the brother of old truly could not adapt to school life, but the brother of now, Lents felt, would have no trouble at all. In truth, he rather looked forward to the sight of his brother's desk drawer overflowing with love letters once he returned to school; that way, at this time of night, he could happily help his brother tear them open!

"We shall see about that. You should get some sleep."

Previously, Karen had been anxious to resume his studies, wanting to pass the examinations and escape, to break away from Dis and breathe the fresh, untethered air of freedom;

now, as a legally designated "Evil God," Karen realized that the free air of the outside world was not meant for someone like him.

He clicked on the desk lamp and pulled out a new book. The volume was bound in brown cloth, its title reading *The Light of Order*, and Karen noted that it bore no publisher's mark, though the craftsmanship was remarkably refined.

So, this was an internal publication of the Church of Order?

Opening the book and glancing through the table of contents, Karen found it was indeed an introductory text on the *Church of Order*.

It was rather like applying for a position at a company, where they would hand you a "brochure" detailing their history—the founding, the development, the expansion, the opportunities, and naturally, the most important part: a magnificent blueprint for an incredibly glorious future.

Generally, the less reliable a company was, the more dazzling and dizzying its blueprint for the future tended to be.

However, an internal religious text was quite different from those pyramid scheme operations, for its future prospects were essentially fixed, often consisting of the very prayers the faithful uttered daily;

furthermore, when enough time had passed and a tradition endured long enough, even if it had begun as a pyramid scheme, if it could successfully perpetuate itself for thousands of years or even over an entire epoch, it... might still be a pyramid scheme... but it would certainly have acquired a touch of aristocratic elegance.

The first half of the book in his hands detailed the history of the Church of Order;

beginning with the earliest mythological tales, once the "historical narrative" of that mythic era concluded, it transitioned into a developmental chronicle filled with proper names, titles, and exact dates.

For instance, in such-and-such a year, a certain person did a certain deed for the Church of Order in a particular country, pioneering a certain path, and so on—it read very much like the annals of a sovereign state.

Regarding the myths, Karen took particular notice of the section describing the awakening of the God of Order.

In this book's exposition, the God of Order had entered a state of self-contained exile for the duration of an entire epoch, followed by a vast and convoluted narrative that, when summarized, amounted to something akin to an "eminent monk achieving enlightenment."

Only, the God of Order's period of enlightenment was considerably longer, and while a monk would enter and exit seclusion, the God of Order had "awakened."

This "awakening" bore a striking resemblance to the "Spell of Awakening" that the Inquisitors of the Church of Order were required to master.

Karen remembered Purr telling him that within the mythological lore of the Church of Order, it was the God of Light who had awakened the God of Order, yet no such record existed within these pages.

Purr had lived for an immensely long time; by Dis's own account, Purr had been connected to the Inmeles family before Dis was even born;

therefore, Karen was more inclined to believe Purr's version. After all, written records could be altered, and more importantly, what possible motive could a cat have to rewrite history for a high school dropout like himself?

As for why the involvement of the God of Light had been erased from this book?

The reason was simple enough to comprehend: the Church of Light had already perished.

The reason the Church of Order had dragged the God of Light into its early mythological narrative... was likely to ride the coattails of the Church of Light's popularity at the time.

And once the Church of Light faded into oblivion, they immediately severed ties, editing away their own dark history.

After all, what religion would care to admit that the true god of their ancestors had once played the subordinate to another true god?

If your house were still vast and your wealth still grand, one might endure it and claim the kinship; but now that the grass grows tall upon your grave, it must naturally be our God of Order who remains eternally grand, glorious, and correct.

Not only that, but factoring in the book's claim that the God of Order had "exiled himself in isolation" for an epoch, it effectively raised his age—or rather, his seniority—by a whole tier above the God of Light.

What should have been the God of Light "calling to awaken" the God of Order—much like an elder guiding a junior, or an elder brother waking a younger brother—

now read as though the prayers of the God of Light had moved the God of Order, prompting the God of Order to descend.

It was very much like the religious fervor with which fans treated their idols in celebrity culture;

Karen skipped the rest of the mythological narratives entirely, and he chose to bypass the historical chronicles in the middle as well.

The final volume detailed the contemporary operational structure of the Church of Order.

Yet it merely recorded which nations held which great regions, how many administrative offices existed, and how many sacred statues were erected, entirely failing to provide a detailed breakdown of the true underlying logic of operations;

However, one particular theory caught Cullen’s eye, because upon a first reading it seemed perfectly ordinary, yet when pondered deeply, it felt utterly bizarre.

"The gods entered into a covenant, a binding restriction by which they willingly retreated half a step, allowing the God of Order to govern the order of the heavens."

"The Church of Order, existing as the maintainer of that order, should naturally treat all equally under the illumination of the Light of Order."

Cullen did not truly believe that the "gods" mentioned here had signed an actual covenant of order with the God of Order, unless the person recording this happened to be the very table upon which the covenant was signed in the divine realm at that time, or the very pen that signed it;

Therefore, this had to be an allegory for reality, representing the numerous orthodox churches in the actual world;

Retreating half a step must mean yielding a portion of their authority to the Church of Order, allowing it to maintain a certain semblance of order.

But why would those other orthodox churches be so reasonable? So considerate of the greater good?

And was it truly a voluntary concession made on the foundation of friendly negotiations?

Furthermore, the phrase "treating all equally" under the illumination of the "Light of Order" held a meaning that was well worth savoring;

Connecting the text before and after, an image of a street gangster holding a machete sprang into Cullen's mind:

I made the rules, do you submit or not?

Don't be afraid, I prefer to convince people with virtue!

Cullen took a sip of water,

Thus, the Church of Order in this world, at least for the time being, must be an existence possessing relatively formidable power and confidence.

After roughly browsing through this book, Cullen felt somewhat weary, having no intention of flipping through the remaining volumes for the moment;

He climbed into bed,

turned off the light,

and went to sleep.

...

The next day, at seven-thirty, Cullen got out of bed.

After washing up, he went down to the first floor;

Breakfast consisted of milk and bread with grilled sausages, oh, and a few slices of pickled cucumbers.

How was one supposed to eat this stuff with bread?

Perhaps his aunt had mistakenly assumed he was obsessed with this particular flavor; otherwise, why would she have brought back a large jar of it from someone else's house?

With his right hand holding bread dipped in milk, his left hand habitually opened today's edition of the Lodia Daily laid out on the dining table.

The first page of the newspaper announced to all citizens that the mayoral election voting would officially commence in five days.

The second page featured an exclusive interview, interviewing the representatives of the workers' march from a few days ago.

The presentation took the form of a reporter asking questions and the other party responding,

And what the worker's answers manifested was a tone of negativity and pessimism; moreover, a worker suffering from pneumoconiosis actually stated in the interview:

"Hickson has betrayed us, betrayed the East District!"

Hmm? In terms of emotional inclination, it was completely different from what Rothe had told him last night.

In Rothe's eyes, old Mayor Hickson was the pride of their East District.

However, Cullen did not find the bias in the newspaper strange at all; ever since the election warm-up began, the Lodia Daily had stood almost flagrantly on the opposite side of the old mayor, as if absolutely certain that the old mayor could never win re-election, and not caring in the least whether they would face suppression and retaliation if they happened to choose the wrong side.

Taking a bite of the softened bread,

Cullen suddenly discovered that among the interviewees in this lengthy exclusive feature, there was one actually named Rothe.

Reporter: Do you believe the municipal government's handling of this workers' march and demonstration was appropriate and reasonable?

Rothe: No, the municipal government is completely stalling us. When they needed us workers, they used all sorts of sweet talk to make us risk our lives for them, and once we lost our utility—like me, losing a leg and becoming disabled—they treated me like trash to be swept away, leaving me surrounded by a swarm of flies to fend for myself in a foul ditch.

Reporter: Then what are your views and expectations for the future?

Rothe: There are no expectations left, truly. I feel the entire sky over Lodia City has turned black. My family and I have become numb and hopeless about the future; I only wanted a means to sustain my family's livelihood, yet I cannot even obtain that.

Hickson has betrayed our East District. He is just like those cold-blooded factory owners, kicking us aside after utilizing us completely!

Mr. Reporter,

I already feel that I cannot go on living, truly, my family and I are already on the verge of being unable to survive; this winter is so terribly cold.

...

At the very bottom of the report was a photograph showing the back of a man leaning on a crutch, but one could see that one of his trouser legs hung completely empty;

The background was Rothe's home, a low-entrance dwelling riddled with puddles.

Seeing this,

Cullen frowned slightly,

subconsciously picked up a slice of pickled cucumber, took a bite, and using that sharp sour kick, Cullen cursed:

"This newspaper is truly... shameless enough."

He did not believe these were Rothe's original words from the interview, because last night Rothe had absolutely no reason or logic to deceive him; his own family ran a funeral parlor, not the mayor's office.

"The newspapers lately are completely unreadable," Uncle Mason said as he walked over. "Especially after the mayoral campaign activities started, I even broke the habit of reading the newspaper at breakfast."

As he spoke, Uncle Mason gestured a circle with his hand:

"After all, who wants a stamped backside placed right in front of them during a meal?"

"Then our family can switch to a different newspaper subscription in the future," Cullen said.

"Oh, but that would merely be changing from a red-stamped backside to a black-stamped backside. Subscribing to a few more newspapers will only harvest you more backsides.

Yet every single newspaper will still reiterate underneath that they respect freedom of the press, but the freedom they understand is the freedom to press their boss's backside right onto the faces of us readers."

"Uncle is right," Cullen put down the newspaper. "Very profound."

"Haha, hey, is this cucumber good?" Uncle Mason reached out to pick one up and took a bite: "Mmm... I..."

Finishing his sentence, Uncle Mason directly chugged a large glass of milk.

"Good heavens, this is truly the food of devils." Mason picked up the bread and took two more bites to suppress the taste, but quickly added, "Though it wouldn't be bad paired with meat, it can cut through the grease, and it works with noodles too."

Cullen felt somewhat gratified; after his period of "feeding" them, Uncle Mason had finally realized the meaning of "cutting through the grease."

Previously, the Inmeres family's culinary habits followed the uniform standard of the Ryluan middle class, a standard that could roughly be divided into two principles:

See if I can't sweeten you to death!

And,

See if I can't cloy you to death with grease!

"Right, what date is it today again?" Uncle Mason asked.

"It's the 16th," Cullen replied.

"Wonderful, if it isn't delivered today, then that deposit can be kept without lifting a finger."

Just at that moment,

The telephone rang on the ground floor, where Aunt Winnie answered it.

Uncle Mason, mid-bite into his bread, paid no heed to the crumbs flying from his mouth as he

muttered:

"Heaven forbid it's another death."

A moment later,

Aunt Winnie's voice came shouting from downstairs: "Mason, Mason!"

Such urgent calls usually meant a job was waiting, and Uncle Mason immediately stood up to don his coat.

Cullen rose as well, following Uncle Mason down the stairs.

"Winnie, it couldn't be?" Uncle Mason asked as he descended.

In truth, there was no need to ask, for if it were any other business, according to their contract, the Inmeles family would not accept another client until tomorrow.

Even on the eighteenth, the day after next, Uncle Mason had only scheduled a charity service and taken no official orders; after all, one had to leave an extra day of buffer for others—business couldn't be conducted with such rigid greed.

"Yes, that order has come, the family that paid the deposit."

"Sigh." Uncle Mason shrugged. "Very well, let us begin then."

They had accepted the deposit, so now that the work had arrived, it simply had to be done.

"Ah-Fu, Ron!"

Uncle Mason called out for his two hands.

Among them, Alfred's name was simplified by Uncle Mason because it was too much of a mouthful, a common practice here where friends with long names might even be reduced to a few letters.

When Uncle Mason called for Alfred, the "Ah" was politely drawn out a fraction of a second, with an extra touch of courteous retroflexion, yet it still sounded like... Ah-Fu.

Alfred appeared at the doorway, clad in his usual grey overalls.

"Where is Ron?" Uncle Mason inquired.

"He said last night he was going to the tavern for a drink, so he might be a bit late today; he hasn't arrived yet," Alfred said.

"Dammit," Uncle Mason cursed, turning to Aunt Winnie. "When Ron gets here, tell him to find his own way over. Oh, by the way, what's the address?"

"Number 117, Mine Street, East District."

"What?" Cullen immediately snapped his gaze toward Aunt Winnie.

"The road to Mine Street is treacherous; I hear they are still doing roadwork," Uncle Mason remarked.

Just then, Aunt Mary walked up from the basement and said, "Doesn't Sarah, Mina's classmate, live on Mine Street? Cullen drove her back just yesterday."

"Is that so? Good, Cullen, you drive then." Uncle Mason patted Cullen on the shoulder, then asked curiously, "Does Mina's classmate live on Mine Street too? What number?"

What number?

In a shantytown where walking on a rainy day required stepping carefully across bricks like a dancer, where would one ever spot a house number...

Cullen could only reply:

"I don't know."

"Fine, we'll ask around when we get there." Uncle Mason looked back at Alfred. "Ah-Fu, have you had breakfast?"

"I have, sir."

"Good, then let us set off. Cullen, drive."

"Oh, right."

Cullen started the hearse and drove out of Mink Street.

It couldn't be, it surely couldn't be; it was merely a coincidence that it happened on Mine Street.

As he drove,

a report from this morning's Roga Daily began to surface in Cullen's mind:

I feel I can no longer go on living, truly, my family and I are at the end of our ropes; this winter is so very cold.

Subsequently,

the words spoken by the man in black who had paid the deposit at the previous funeral came back to him:

"They are a very close-knit family."

Right after that,

Rott's voice seemed to echo in his ears once more:

"Yes, yes, Mr. Cullen, you are quite right, everything will get better."

Sigh,

what on earth am I thinking,

how could it possibly be their family.

We will be at Mine Street soon anyway, so I can take the opportunity to ask Sarah's mother about her method for making braised noodles, especially how she mixes that sauce; I must learn it, for it tasted truly wonderful.

"Cullen, watch out!"

Uncle Mason shouted.

Cullen instantly snapped out of his reverie and jerked the steering wheel, narrowly preventing the hearse from slamming directly into a lamppost.

"Are you still half-asleep? Or are you feeling unwell again?" Uncle Mason wasn't worried about Cullen wrecking the family's newly purchased hearse.

"I... perhaps so."

"Let me drive instead, you just give directions."

"Alright, Uncle."

The hearse possessed a spacious interior, its driver's cabin resembling that of a small bus, allowing occupants to switch seats without stepping outside.

Uncle Mason restarted the hearse, while Cullen moved to the back.

Why is my heart filled with such dread,

what exactly am I wildly imagining, worrying about, and fearing,

they must be perfectly fine right now, and later I will tell the old grandmother that her pickled gherkins were absolutely delicious.

Alfred sat opposite him, watching Cullen as he sat there in silence.

He felt an impulse to step forward and inquire, yet he hesitated; the great being was currently unsettled, but he did not seem to require consolation.

At last,

the hearse turned into Mine Street.

"Look at the crowd, is there a flea market gathering today?" Uncle Mason said from the driver's seat. "Oh? There are two police cars over there as well."

Cullen looked out the window; amidst the throngs of people, there were indeed several police officers present.

"The hearse is here, the hearse is here," someone in the crowd shouted.

"Poor family, may they rest in peace," the prayer of a woman drifted into Cullen's ears.

"It is truly pitiful; that little girl was still wearing her schoolbag when she fell to her death. They say her mother lied to her, telling her she was taking her to school early."

"We are here, Karen," Uncle Mason called out. "Move the stretcher cart down."

Karen stood up. Due to the recessed design of the hearse's rear carriage, Karen’s balance faltered, and had Alfred not reached out in time to catch him, Karen might have fallen.

Alfred said with a smile, "Master, this is no place to lie down."

...

"Yeah! You can lie down and sleep here."

"Haha, you absolutely cannot lie down in this vehicle."

...

Karen stepped off the vehicle. Alfred, clad in overalls, carried a stretcher cart on each of his left and right shoulders.

Uncle Mason froze for a moment upon witnessing this scene:

"I feel like firing Ron."

At this moment, a lean police chief walked over and said, "Hurry inside and clear the bodies; there are far too many onlookers."

Uncle Mason asked with some surprise, "Are all the procedures finalized?"

Judging by the crowd of onlookers, and based on Uncle Mason's experience, this was by no means a natural death. What family’s elderly dying of old age or family member dying of illness could clog up half the street? Unless they were exceedingly wealthy.

"The suicide notes are all here; it was indeed a suicide. One poisoned himself, one hanged herself, and the remaining mother took her daughter and leapt from the rooftop of the tenement building."

"So many!" Uncle Mason exclaimed.

"Hurry up, the sooner it is handled, the sooner it is over."

"Come, follow me," Mason called out to Alfred and Karen behind him.

The rain from last night had persisted until dawn, so the puddles still held water, and everyone could only continue stepping on the bricks to make their way inside.

The familiar road,

The familiar bricks,

The familiar surroundings;

Ahead, the conversation between his uncle and that East District police chief continued to drift into Karen's ears:

"The man joined the protest a few days ago; his demands must not have been met, so in utter despair, he left a suicide note and poisoned himself. The note was entirely filled with words cursing the Mayor for his treachery.

Sigh, there was nothing to be done, he was a disabled man after all. You know, nowadays even a person with sound limbs finds it hard to look for a job that can feed a family, let alone a disabled man."

"Yes, you speak the truth."

"His elderly mother must have discovered her son's suicide and, unable to bear the blow, hanged herself in the room. We cut her down. She also left a suicide note, just a single sentence: My son needs my care."

"Sigh."

"The man and the elderly mother died at home, and the neighbors did not know beforehand. So when they saw the woman taking her daughter, who was wearing a schoolbag, out the door just as dawn was breaking, they even asked them where they were going.

The woman replied that her husband had called a taxi today to send their daughter to school, and the daughter even said very happily that today she did not have to walk far to the station to catch the tram.

The neighbor was baffled at the time; where would their family get the money to take a taxi to make a living? The daily income of their entire family was probably not enough to ride a taxi once."

"Afterward, the woman took her daughter..."

"Yes, they went to the tenement building's rooftop and jumped, going to find her husband, going to find her father.

The fall was rather brutal. I heard your funeral parlor can restore people to their living appearance; is this one no problem as well?"

"No problem, this is our business card." Uncle Mason habitually handed over a business card.

"Impressive. It is right here. The father's corpse has already been carried out and is outside, and the elderly mother's corpse is inside. Collect these two first, and then I will take you to collect that mother and daughter.

Hmm? Inmeles Funeral Parlor, located on Mink Street, interesting;

When people living here die, they are directly dragged to the crematorium to be burned into ash. Who would hold a memorial service?"

"Well, we are..." Uncle Mason did not know how to explain either.

Meanwhile, Karen behind them opened his mouth; these words, he had heard the exact same last night.

"Master?" Alfred asked in a low voice, "Is your body really alright?"

The police chief suddenly shouted in anger:

"Hey, push those reporters back, push them back!

Damn it, who allowed you to give the suicide notes to the reporters to take photos? Snatch them back for me!

You people hurry up and carry the bodies away, quick, this pack of reporters is like sharks that have scented blood, I do not want to court trouble."

"Alright."

Uncle Mason came before the male corpse on the ground covered in white cloth, reaching out to signal Karen and Alfred to come over.

Karen looked at the male corpse before him, his mind completely blank.

"Thank you, Madam. Hehe, Madam, did you hear that? He called you Madam." Poisoned;

"You must eat your fill, do not be polite." Hanged;

"It seems to suit your taste; take it home and taste it with your family." "Mm, I help Daddy massage his legs every day." Jumped;

In Karen's mind, the image of that family sending him off, seen through the rearview mirror as he departed last night, surfaced.

How could this be possible,

How could this happen,

Though impoverished, they had always lived their lives with diligence and optimism;

How could this family go to seek death!

It would not be so,

It was simply impossible.

Uncle Mason called out, "Alfred, come over and lift with me. Karen, hold the stretcher cart steady."

As Uncle Mason and Alfred lifted the corpse together and placed it onto the stretcher cart, the wheels of the cart slid for a moment. The absent-minded Karen subconsciously reached out to brace it, but his foot stepped right into a puddle; with a slip, he lost his balance and fell backward.

Fortunately, someone in the crowd of onlookers behind propped him up, sparing Karen from falling entirely into the muddy puddle.

Because of the sliding of the stretcher cart, the corpse that had just been placed upon it swayed as well, and the white cloth originally covering the corpse fell away, revealing the empty sleeve of the body.

Karen stared at that section of the sleeve; hm, was an arm missing? Shouldn't it be a leg?

At this moment, the person bracing Karen with his chest spoke:

"Mr. Karen, please get up quickly, my crutch is about to give way."