Chapter 520: Eye of Order

Chapter 520: The Eye of Order

Vickolai raised his head, staring at the "Pavarotti" crouching before him, entirely frozen in disbelief.

"You... you... who on earth are you?"

"How strange. Haven't you already seen who I am?"

Vickolai's eyes widened to their limits as, in that exact split second, understanding finally dawned upon him.

Back then, the only reason he had dared to so confidently claim all the credit for the Zihe case was because the intelligence and clues available at the time dictated that Pavarotti should have been dead.

Yet, Pavarotti had suddenly "returned to life," forcing Vickolai, upon receiving the news, to personally go and appease him, to engage in a "silent transaction" with him.

Immediately following that, a divine servant named "Karen" had appeared at the Pavarotti Inquisitorial Office, quickly becoming an auxiliary member of the Whip of Order squad, before advancing step by step to where he stood today.

Furthermore, he had never moved out; he had practically treated the Pavarotti Funeral Home as his own house, living right alongside Pavarotti's family. It was an anomaly that should have stood out above all else, yet now that it made sense, it seemed entirely natural.

Because that house no longer had a master.

"Hehehe... hehe..."

Vickolai began to laugh. He reached out a hand, pointing directly at Karen's face while staring into his eyes.

"So, the person I met, the person I did business with, wasn't Pavarotti at all. It was you... Karen Silva?"

"Yes, precisely.

At that time, I had just assumed Mr. Pavarotti's identity, and everything was still in the earliest stages of exploration when I ran into you.

However, I was already quite angry after learning that you had stolen Mr. Pavarotti's achievements. Then you actually came to the funeral home and threatened me to my face, acting as though you were dispensing charity. You were clearly stealing the honor someone else had paid for with their life, yet you carried yourself as if you were tossing a few coins to a beggar on the street.

You know, back then, I already swore in my heart that I would take your life. I would make you pay the price for the desecration you inflicted upon Mr. Pavarotti."

"Just because of that?" Vickolai looked on in utter disbelief. "I cannot comprehend this. You already gained the benefits, you obtained Pavarotti's identity—why do you still have it out for me?"

"A person like you is incapable of comprehending what it actually feels like to respect someone."

"Merely because of that, you dare to lay a hand on a bishop's family? Have you lost your mind?"

"Do you still remember that day when you stood before me and said, with immense arrogance, that your grandfather was a regional bishop? Do you know what I felt at that moment?

I really wanted to laugh, truly.

In fact, after you left, I couldn't hold it in anymore. I laughed out loud, for a very long time, as if I had just heard the greatest joke in the world.

Because you actually dared to compare grandfathers with me.

Well, looking at it now, I misjudged you. I shouldn't have mocked you; I was being superficial.

I thought you were trying to match grandfathers with me, but it turns out you were trying to match fathers.

None of that matters anymore, though. Do not worry about being lonely or miserable, for I will do everything in my power to grant you a happy family reunion. No matter which side it's on, you are merely taking the first step ahead."

Vickolai screamed, "Who on earth are you? Tell me! Which church's spy are you, planted within our ranks?!"

"I imagine no spy would ever move against you, or against your family.

Because the existence of a family like yours is exactly what spies love to see most. They wish that everywhere they looked within the Church of Order, there would only be families like your Naodun clan. If I were a spy, I would undoubtedly nurture and protect your family with the utmost care."

"Don't kill me." Vickolai looked at Karen. "Let me go. Name your terms. I can agree to them on behalf of my grandfather... no, on behalf of my father."

"I like doing business. I recognize the value of each party getting what they need, and I also like looking at ledger books to calculate my current income and expenses. I want to climb up, too, to a position high enough that allows me to see far into the distance.

That is how I used to operate, and I believed there was nothing wrong with it, yes. Originally, there shouldn't have been anything wrong with it.

However, there are certain things that cannot be used as currency for a transaction. They cannot even be weighed by simple gains and losses—especially when I already possess the capability yet still find myself calculating material risks. Your life, for instance."

Karen drew a white glove from his pocket and slowly pulled it onto his left hand.

A chilling aura pressed down upon Vickolai. Vickolai shouted, "My family has a connection with a great figure in the Temple! The only reason my father was able to sit in the bishop's seat was because of that great figure's influence!

Don't kill me! If you kill me, you will suddenly drop dead one day in the future, truly!

Great figures of that caliber—if they want to kill someone, even someone like you, they have countless ways to do it. You won't be able to escape it at all!"

Karen used his white-gloved hand to gently cradle Vickolai's neck, sensing the slight tremors running through Vickolai's body.

In truth, from the moment Vickolai saw him walk in holding that bowl of noodles, he knew exactly what Karen had come to do. All his talking before was merely an attempt to try different approaches to win a lease on life.

This foolish creature, stimulated by the looming presence of death, had actually become a fraction smarter than before. Of course, it might also just be that his baseline was so abysmally low that any upward movement made the room for improvement look vast.

"Let that great figure come then. Let him come kill me. I beg him to come."

"You..."

"Actually, even now, I haven't quite decided on the method I should use to kill you. The trial process drained too much of my energy, making this current moment feel inevitably a bit bland.

How about this: I won't bother thinking of other methods. We'll just go with something a bit simpler. What do you think?"

"No! I don't want to die! I don't want to die! I don't want to die!!!"

"Scream. Keep screaming. Regardless, an atmosphere still needs to be cultivated. Before eating birthday cake, one must always blow out the candles."

A black circle materialized beneath Karen's feet. Immediately afterward, three chains of order flew out, binding Vickolai's body in an instant and hoisting him entirely into the air.

"No! Don't! Please, don't!"

Vickolai screamed in terror. Though he did not know what was to follow, he understood perfectly well that it would be something that would make him wish he were dead.

"Not bad. After laboring diligently for so long, I finally have an environment where I can go about my work without any rush.

Yet, sometimes, a comfortable environment isn't necessarily a good thing. What I originally intended was to use a more extreme method to abduct you, completing my own trial of you before your family could find you.

I felt that doing it that way would carry a sense of tension. I probably would have been a bit more excited, and you would have been too; your emotional fluctuations would have been far more intense.

Ah.

After all, this dinner is being prepared out of your death and agony, so the ingredients are bound to be exceptionally precious to you.

Failing to cook a true delicacy is a form of disrespect to the ingredients.

I shall offer you an apology first. Should I encounter someone like you again in the future, I will consider the suitability of the preparation methods with greater detail and comprehensiveness."

From the center of Karen's gloved left palm, a wisp of black order flame flared up. He then suspended it directly over Vickolai's chest. The black flame began to slowly roast—or rather, one could say it began to seep into—Vickolai's breast.

This was torture inflicted directly upon the soul. Vickolai was instantly rendered incapable of making a sound; his consciousness and senses began to warp amidst the torment of his soul.

But Vickolai was simply too weak. He was so weak that this slight amount of intensity was enough to kill him very quickly, which did not align with Karen's requirements.

He did not want to employ too many tricks, but he had to respect the process. The atmosphere might appear to lack novelty, but the duration had to reflect a kind of respect.

Thus, Karen's own soul power began to pour into Vickolai through the chains of order bound around him.

It was like boiling a kettle of water; fearing it might boil dry, Karen would occasionally continue to add more water into it.

Even though the soul power being consumed belonged to Karen, the agony was entirely Vickolai's alone to enjoy.

Vickolai's body had already entered a state of paralysis. From the outside, Karen could no longer obtain the feedback he required. For a chef, this was equivalent to being unable to observe the diner's expression—a true flaw.

So Karen closed his eyes. Following the total crushing of Vickolai's soul defenses by the fire of order and the active infusion of his own soul power, he easily entered Vickolai's space of consciousness.

This was a mottled, filthy "region," entirely devoid of any sense of design. This meant Vickolai's soul contained an immense amount of impurities, likely a delayed side effect of frequent absorption and forced infusions.

Here, Karen saw Vickolai enveloped within the black flames. He was wailing, he was thrashing, he was cursing violently, precisely like a monkey dropped onto a red-hot iron plate.

Karen stood off to the side, quietly admiring the view.

Time trickled away slowly. Originally, this should have continued until Karen felt it was roughly sufficient, bringing it to a natural end.

But a minor accident transpired at this very moment.

If Wikolay were to be likened to a tattered rag, when it was roasted by the flames, all manner of bizarre odors began to emanate from it. His assimilation had been far too chaotic, utterly devoid of any proper method, and so what now overflowed into the conscious space was a peculiar "olfactory atmosphere."

To Karen, it was like a man trying to quit smoking, suddenly forced to stand before a cigarette display case, with a smaller cabinet beside it filled with lighters.

It would have been fine had Karen not entered, but now that he was inside, "smoked" by this environment—even if it was merely a gentle waft, not a proper assault by any means, and hardly even a threat...

Yet sometimes, human perception is just that exquisite; perhaps it takes only a tiny provocation, a slight crook of a finger or a simple glance, and the emotions instantly spike like a sudden flash of flame.

Karen sensed that the "addiction" within his heart was surging, the hunger expanding continuously like a whirlpool in water.

However, it was impossible for Karen to "consume" Wikolay. Firstly, Wikolay’s meat was far too meager to even slightly appease his hunger; secondly, Karen found it repulsive, as he had not yet degenerated to the point of devouring anything out of sheer desperation.

Moreover, Karen did not want to cut the execution short and grant Wikolay a swift death for such a reason.

Thus, Karen simply stood within this conscious space, suppressing the hunger within his body.

Yet, that sensation felt exceptionally intense today, unreasonably so, likely because a significant amount of time had passed since his last meal, and the long-repressed volcano was beginning to erupt.

Karen’s eyes gradually began to fill with blackness, not a deep, profound black, but a color brimming with suppressed and frenzied emotions.

"Hiss..."

The hunger, like a surging tide, battered Karen’s psychological defense line time and time again; though this line still appeared sturdy for now, the problem lay in the water level rising too quickly—it was no longer a matter of whether it was sturdy, but that it was gradually overflowing.

Only now did Karen begin to ponder: what exactly had triggered him?

Wikolay’s conscious space should merely be a catalyst; judging by the current intensity, there must have been a prelude before this.

But the problem was that although the entire trial process had been highly tense, he himself had not suffered any substantial impact, so was it before the trial began?

Karen suddenly thought of a possibility—the injury he had sustained last night, a wound he had inflicted upon himself. After returning to the office, Blanche had treated him with utmost care.

According to past experience, every time he was injured, he would easily experience a sense of "emptiness," and his body would clamor for more nutrients to repair itself.

But this was merely a minor injury; it looked severe, but in truth, he had been measured when he struck himself...

No,

That wasn't right,

He had overlooked one detail: before Blanche, someone else had already treated his injuries, and Blanche's subsequent treatment was merely to remove the scars.

It was Bernie!

He and Neo had been sitting by the roadside at the time, he with his injuries and Neo clutching his own intestines, and then Bernie and District Head Harry had appeared, with Bernie personally administering the first round of treatment for the two of them.

After the treatment, from the conversation between Bernie and Neo, Karen learned that Bernie had come from an orthodox clerical background.

At the time, he had found it strange that someone from a clerical background could be heavily relied upon within the Whip of Order system.

"Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!"

Within his soul came the sound of fracturing, as if a layer of glass membrane had been breached, and the shattered "glass" began to slice through his soul—it was not particularly severe, but it would have been better if it were worse; this mild cutting was like a tickle in the depths of his heart, triggering a succession of tremors from the very core of his soul.

There was a problem!

Karen grit his teeth; the treatment Bernie gave him had a problem!

However, Karen understood even better that the problem here might not be that Bernie intentionally wished to harm him, but rather that his treatment technique might have possessed a certain specificity; perhaps it was originally meant to be more efficient, but when applied to his own body, it produced an adverse, accelerating effect.

Blanche had marveled during her subsequent treatment, noting that the priest who first treated their captain was truly exceptional, superior even to her own mentor.

Furthermore, motivationally speaking, Bernie had absolutely no reason to move against him; even if he wanted to test him, he should have tested Neo first, and besides, using such a low-end method to probe would be tantamount to openly declaring suspicion—Bernie was not that foolish.

So it just happened that the "medicine" was too potent, and because of his unique constitution, he happened to have an allergic reaction?

This matter had to be discussed with Neo; a comparison could likely be drawn from him, since Neo's constitution was also highly peculiar.

But now... accompanied by the sound of shattering glass, Karen found his consciousness gradually dispersing. He knew that the scene beneath the well on Sacrifice Island, when he faced the red-clothed woman of the divine bone, was about to manifest once more; he would strip away most of his emotion, leaving only a singular, absolute self.

Karen reached out and condensed another cluster of the Flame of Order, placing it upon his own soul. He had experience with this; such a terrifying addiction could only be suppressed by a sensation of higher intensity.

Heh,

He had clearly come to conduct an execution, yet it turned out he had to undergo torture alongside the condemned; this was hardly a beautiful development.

However, after the Fire of Order entered his soul, it failed to produce the desired effect; instead of a burning sensation, it felt more like it initiated the next round of stimulation.

Around Karen, chains of Order erupted from the ground, instantly blanketing the entire conscious space that originally belonged to Wikolay.

Could it only be suppressed by using the Fire of Light?

Karen thought this to himself, yet just as he was about to summon the Fire of Light, a further tremor washed over his soul. In an instant, his consciousness suffered a brief lapse, and it was precisely then that Karen’s "body" within Wikolay’s conscious space began to melt, dissolving upward.

...

The utterly agonized Wikolay now possessed a very simple thought: to die, to die quickly, to die sooner. He no longer wished to survive; he only wanted to end all of this swiftly.

Yet as the roasting persisted, he could sense wave after wave of soul power continuously being funneled into him. In the past, he would have greatly enjoyed this process, for it would bring him immense pleasure; now, however, he loathed it to death, for these incoming waves brought prolonged torment and a deeper layer of despair.

Slowly, however, he began to perceive that the pain upon his soul was gradually diminishing, though the Flame of Order upon his soul had clearly not recated.

Before he could rejoice, he suddenly sensed a terrifying aura pressing down upon his soul. He raised his head, and within his conscious space, he beheld a colossal eye.

That eye possessed not a shred of emotion, merely staring down, staring at him.

In that instant, a great horror that words could not describe saturated Wikolay’s soul; he knew not what this thing was, nor why it had become like this.

Submit, submit, submit...

Beneath that gaze, it seemed any defiance would be a transgression so severe he could never forgive himself.

Wikolay prostrated himself, beginning to pray, beginning to repent, beginning to confess everything he had done, merely begging for a shred of possible mercy.

At that moment, the eye in the sky closed.

Wikolay’s soul shattered into pieces, the process of a soul being sliced into countless particles could nigh be called the most terrifying torture in the world, far exceeding being hacked to pieces in the flesh.

Then, the eye in the sky opened again.

Wikolay’s freshly shattered soul condensed once more.

"Ah ah ah ah ah ah!!!"

Wikolay clutched his head, driven completely insane; he had broken down, utterly broken down. He wanted to flee, but this was his own soul's conscious space—there was nowhere to run.

Yet this was merely the beginning.

Eyes closed, shattered.

Eyes open, condensed.

The eye above merely opened and closed in a very routine fashion, and corresponding to it, the soul below shattered and condensed time after time; each instance was an end and a beginning, and each was incomparably vivid, leaving one utterly unable to escape.

Was this a newly invented form of torture?

No,

This was merely a game.