Chapter 673: Angel Descends

Chapter 673: The Descent of an Angel

"Here."

Richard handed a small vial to Karen, filled with his vital essence—the distilled, most potent concentration of a human being's life force.

"Thanks."

Karen accepted it naturally, slipping it into his pocket.

There was no need for awkwardness; with young Jerry around, Richard’s blood-replenishing capabilities were exceptional. Otherwise, he could not have been beaten bloody time and again, only to emerge each time with renewed vigor.

After the guards at the gate inspected their membership cards, Karen and Richard were granted entry into the estate. The grounds were heavily patrolled, the security fastidious.

After all, this was a high-end establishment. The sheer decadence and abandon displayed here by many prominent figures could never be permitted to leak to the outside world.

A carriage swept past them, its curtains drawn back just enough to reveal a woman seated within. Though her makeup was thick, it failed to conceal her age; she appeared to be nearing fifty.

Karen and Richard could have ridden in a carriage themselves, but they had declined the privilege in order to scrutinize the layout of the grounds.

Once the carriage had passed, Richard leaned close to Karen and whispered, "That is Madame Baulifard, a writer of considerable renown."

"Her?"

"Oh? You've read her books?" Richard asked, somewhat surprised.

"Yes."

Karen had always maintained a habit of reading. In his leisure hours, from Rhein to Wien, he would often pull a volume from the shelves to leaf through—a practice he kept up to this day. Combined with a reading speed far exceeding that of an ordinary man, his literary repertoire was already vast.

This Madame Baulifard had authored several famous works: *Darling, I Wish to Whisper to You*, *Love Letters to Heaven*, and *My Face Yearns for the Back of Your Hand*.

Her prose was refined yet delicate, her themes invariably revolving around the remembrance of her deceased husband and recollections of their deep, mutual affection.

Thus, while her books were not explosive bestsellers, they commanded a remarkably stable audience. She herself frequently attended public functions and government-sponsored events, possessing no small measure of influence.

Richard held up three fingers. "That lady plays hard. Blindfolded boxers—she ordered three of them all to herself."

Ahead of them, a man halted his steps, pointedly turning around to look at Richard, and gave a brief wave.

Richard returned the wave, then pointed to Karen at his side, signaling that he was with a friend and indicating the man should proceed inside first.

The man was tall and robustly built, possessing the look of an operatic tenor, which was precisely what he was.

"Mobigar, the celebrated vocalist. I've performed duets with him here. His most famous repertoires celebrate fidelity in love, and his most popular singles are all rather tragic. His wife passed away early."

Karen asked, "Does he also prefer to order three at a time?"

"Just one..."

"That sounds reasonable enough."

"...boxer."

"Heh."

Richard chuckled along, remarking:

"Haha, there's no helping it. They all have public personas to maintain. If they tryst with their own readers or listeners, things easily go awry and ruin their reputations. But if they go to a standard pastry shop, a single paparazzi photograph would destroy their good name all the same.

Yet each of them is rolling in wealth. With that much money, who would want to live such a repressed life and still have to rely on their own hands?"

"Are there many such private manors in York City?"

"Not too many, but not a few either. The cost of service and the nature of the demand dictate its stratified market. Though personally, I still prefer the pastry shops; I feel there is a breath of real life there, and the conversation is pleasant."

"Is the conversation not pleasant here?"

"Last time, I sat on a bed in a private room here, drinking coffee and chatting with a waitress. I wanted to deliberately steer the conversation into deeper intellectual waters, only to discover right as we were finishing up that she was an undergraduate student from the philosophy department at York City Imperial University."

"If you have the leisure to find outsiders to chat with, you would do better to go home and speak with your father more often."

"Karen, place your hand on your conscience. Is speech what my father truly desires?"

"Communication remains an absolute necessity."

"Ha. These days, when I speak to my father, before we are even a few sentences in, I can feel him actively searching for an excuse to thrash me. Fortunately, my hands and feet have been clean lately, leaving no traces behind, so he hasn't found a proper opportunity to erupt."

Stepping through the main entrance of the building, they found the first floor laid out like a grand café. The space was immense, partitioned into numerous private sections, with some coffee booths entirely shrouded in black cloth.

"The first floor is still relatively normal. The second, third, fourth, and the levels above—that's where the games and varieties truly multiply."

"Let us select the most direct arrangement," Karen said.

There was no need to experience them one by one; they had not come specifically to frequent a brothel, however premium it might be.

"Very well, I shall go make the arrangements and reservations first. Just you alone?"

"Two."

"I don't want any. I despise this sort of physical intimacy devoid of an emotional foundation; it makes me think of two dogs mating on the street."

"Back in the theater on Dark Moon Island, did you not choose one?"

"If I told you that the mermaid and I merely played chess upon her scales, would you believe me?"

"Yet your descriptions after emerging were remarkably vivid."

"That was merely to blend in with the crowd." Richard tapped his forehead. "Forget it, consider it a sacrifice for art this time. But precisely how far do we need to take this?"

"You won't be drained completely dry in a single sitting, what is there to fear?"

"Fine, I will head to the front desk and request their highest-tier service. That will require the rooms on the topmost floor. Those rooms are vast and exquisitely furnished; I imagine they are the very workshops they repurposed."

"Go on, I will wait for you."

"Snap!" Richard snapped his fingers. "Waiter, two glasses of iced water over here."

With that, he walked toward the bar.

Karen found a spot and seated himself. However, no sooner had he sat down than several elderly men dressed as gentlemen took their places at the adjacent table.

These elders were in high spirits, their complexions ruddy, but Karen could perceive that their constitutions were somewhat bizarre.

Was this the symptom of empty heat, brought on by consuming restorative supplements after having their essence drained?

One had to understand that within the Knight Orders, only knights who had undergone rigorous training could endure the rapid influx and efflux of strength being drained and blessings being bestowed upon the battlefield. These men, however, were merely a group of elders...

In perhaps three to four months, or half a year at most, their bodies would suddenly collapse, and they would pass away swiftly. For what they were currently experiencing was the concentrated burning of the firewood meant for the next ten or even twenty years of their lives.

An elder holding a pipe spoke loudly, "I still adhere to my view. I cannot alter the ending of this story into a comedy. A tragedy is far more aligned with the overarching theme of my serial."

Another elder replied, "However, the vast majority of readers do not care for tragic endings. Sometimes, we require greater confidence in our creation; we must remain true to ourselves, yet we ought not to deliberately cross purposes with our readership."

"Alright, alright, we've come all this way and you two are still discussing creative writing? Please, we left our homes and came here under the guise of a writers' gathering. Did we truly come to continue picking up our fountain pens to write books?"

"Well said. Since we are here, we ought to enjoy ourselves thoroughly. Has anyone looked at today's program schedule? Are there any activities this morning?"

"There are, but most are still scheduled for the afternoon and evening segments. After all, those who reside here cannot rise in the morning, and those arriving today generally won't appear until after midday."

A balding, middle-aged man came jogging over.

"Haha, Courtemanche, it seems you truly overexerted yourself last night, only rising just now. We have already taken breakfast and had our stroll."

Courtemanche sat down and shrugged, offering a helpless expression. "I just got off the telephone with my office secretary. He told me that last night he received two boxes of razor blades sent by readers!

My secretary was frightened out of his wits, believing it to be a death threat. Over the phone, he vehemently implored me to alter the plot of the novel currently serializing in the *Wien Labor Journal* to prevent readers from resorting to even more extreme measures. Ah, you should know, the windows of my office were replaced five times last month alone!"

"Courtemanche, I suspect it may not be a matter of you altering the plot. I have been following that novel of yours as well, but I haven't seen it in the newspaper for a month now. Was it axed by the press due to a poor reception?"

"No, it is just that my inspiration has run dry of late, leaving me unable to hand in my drafts."

"Haha, then it serves you right."

"Come, waiter, fetch us today's service program. Kutme, let us peruse today's line-up carefully. Trust me, in this place, you are bound to unearth true inspiration."

Sitting nearby, Karen quietly lifted his ice water, took a sip, and cast a downward glance at his membership card. He, too, seemed to be a "writer" of sorts, yet he harbored not the slightest desire to mingle with them.

However, though he wished not to join, someone took the initiative to approach him—it was that very Kutme.

"A fellow colleague, I presume?" Kutme inquired with a smile.

"How could you tell?" Karen countered.

"My eyes are always sharp when reading people. I happen to write detective fiction, you see; had I not pursued novel writing full-time, I might well be the chief of police by now."

A supreme commander of an orthodox church's enforcement branch, mistaken by you for a fellow author—it was a stroke of fortune you never became a police chief.

"Come, would you like me to usher you into the circle?" Kutme asked. "Shall I introduce you to them?"

Karen shook his head.

"True enough. Forcing one's way into a circle where one does not belong is quite pointless. Our literary circle is pure—it is a sort of pure realism, hahaha."

"Every circle is quite the same, in truth."

"Perhaps. My, why are you drinking ice water so early in the morning?"

"I am accustomed to it."

"It is ill for the stomach." Kutme rubbed his abdomen. "My own stomach has been troubled, so I avoid provoking it as much as possible now. Ah, life remains beautiful, and I still wish to go on appreciating this world."

Karen offered a word of caution: "You could choose not to come to this place."

"Hmm?"

"If you wish to live a longer life, that is."

"You speak the truth. Living here is far too comfortable; it corrupts my soul. Thus, I do not intend to indulge as long as they do. I plan to return the day after tomorrow. I fear that if I do not rush back to finish my drafts, they will mail explosive parcels to my office."

Karen nodded silently; in that case, you should well be able to attend the funerals of every single one of them.

Before long, Richard returned.

Seeing Richard, the table of elderly writers next to them rose instantly, calling out:

"Look who it is, whoa!"

"Hail to the great master Eisen, the virtuoso of the flesh-colored piano!"

"I shall certainly attend your piano recital in the performing arts hall this afternoon!"

Richard exchanged greetings with them, then departed from the seating area alongside Karen.

"Karen, I have arranged everything. We may go upstairs immediately."

Karen walked with Richard toward the elevator bank, where two waiters already stood in attendance. Entering the elevator, they ascended directly to the penthouse.

"Mr. Eisen, please follow me."

"Mr. Richard, please follow me."

The two waiters intended to lead Karen and Richard toward rooms in separate directions.

Richard inquired, "Are there no rooms adjacent to one another?"

The waiter replied with a smile, "Mr. Eisen, because you have requested the most distinguished service, and since the rooms here are exceedingly grand and well-soundproofed, being next door or not bears no consequence. Of course, if you gentlemen possess a preference in that regard, we can arrange for both of whom to be serviced within the same suite."

"No, no, I have no such peculiar requirement."

Even as he declined, Richard leaned closer to Karen and whispered, "I am a bit nervous."

Karen responded, "You must have faith in your little Jerry."

With that, the two parted ways, and Karen was ushered into a private suite.

"Mr. Richard, this is the detailed service sheet. Please make your selections behind these items."

"Very well."

Karen took a seat upon the sofa. The suite was immensely spacious, featuring a grand bed, a living room, and a study—and, naturally, an expansive washroom was not lacking, which, in all likelihood, would be the most frequently utilized protagonist of this space.

The list was long, requiring one checkmark after another. From the thematic atmosphere, the plot, and the setting to the attire, an abundance of choices was provided across all aspects.

The last time Karen had filled out a sheet in this manner was when he first ordered his divine robes custom-made within the administrative building of the cult.

Yet, while plots and attire could be altered at any moment, and a thematic atmosphere could just barely be managed, what in the world did the setting imply?

Would the furnishings of this suite truly need to be altered? How much time would that consume, and how troublesome must it be?

Karen reasoned that most patrons stepping into this suite would likely possess very little patience.

Furthermore, at the very bottom, there was actually a section for the 【Method of Release】.

The options remained numerous; Karen selected "Soothing Massage."

At length, the selections were concluded one by one, and the waiter lifted the sheet: "Sir, please wait a moment."

"Very well."

The waiter had just turned around when he wheeled back: "Mr. Richard, are you certain your method of release is to be a 'soothing massage'?"

"Yes, precisely."

"Mr. Richard, I must remind you that once a selection is confirmed, the service items cannot be altered midway. Which is to say, if you should desire to..."

"I am certain."

"Very well, sir. Please wait a moment."

The waiter departed.

Karen rose and walked to the desk, upon which lay a notebook and a fountain pen. The adjacent bookshelf held a fair number of books, all quite pristine, yet nearly all bearing marks of having been thumbed through.

Evidently, quite a few individuals, during their post-coital clarity, would engage in brief communion with the sages within those volumes.

Karen then walked to the window. outside, the sunlight was splendid—a rare piece of fine weather.

Closing his eyes, he perceived the surroundings with care;

Indeed.

As expected, a formation had been laid out within the room.

The Rubik's Key materialized within Karen's palm. He began to introduce some modifications to the formation here, not only altering the primary control authority but even thoughtfully enhancing it.

This could be considered an obsessive-compulsive trait of a formation master; seeing a crude piece of work always brought a sense of discomfort.

"Tap, tap, tap..."

From beyond the door came a succession of crisp sounds, the approach of high heels.

Yet the sound did not truly originate from without; rather, it was a simulated noise emanating from a hanging clock within the room.

"Creak..."

The door was pushed open.

At the selfsame instant, Karen caught a fragrant aroma, as peculiar ripples wafted all around him—it was a spiritual hypnosis.

Karen subconsciously reined in his spiritual power, resisting the instinct to strike back;

Then, he attempted to actively immerse himself into the projection.

This was tantamount to forcing himself to leap into a pit of fire, while still having to tread with utmost caution, terrified that a careless step might extinguish the spark.

Finally, Karen "beheld" a stretch of lush green grass, with a small pond shimmering just ahead.

This was the very scene he had selected earlier: The Green Field.

"You must be weary, do not fear, I have come to keep you company."

A woman's voice drifted from behind him, and as Karen turned, he saw a beautiful woman clad in a translucent green gown, bearing a pair of dragonfly-like wings, gently descending from midair.

Yet Karen's true gaze had already pierced through the barrier of the "illusion," observing a cold, detached woman in yellow leisurewear inside the suite, holding an exquisite wooden box to guide the formation.

The elven woman within the illusion was sweet and tender, whereas the woman in reality was icy and serene, her face marred by a trace of disdain and impatience.

Karen knew she was deeply resentful.

As an aloof priestess, having to "serve" these ordinary mortals here made her feel as though her dignity was being trampled upon.

In the illusion, the beautiful elven maiden invited Karen to bathe with her, and following her guidance, Karen shed his garments piece by piece and stepped into the pond—which was, in reality, the bathtub in the washroom.

The real-world woman hoisted the wooden box in her hand, allowing it to float on its own, while she herself picked up the washroom plunger and a somewhat soiled anti-slip mat, preparing to scrub Karen's back.

The "guests" in reality would never experience this; their senses would only perceive the beautiful elven maiden carefully and tenderly washing their bodies, pushing intimacy to its absolute limit.

Karen sat in the bathtub, his hands resting on either side of the rim.

The woman drew near, and upon seeing Karen—especially upon noticing his gaze fixed directly on her—a sudden wave of dread washed over her.

She had no idea where this emotion originated, nor did it rouse her suspicion; she simply acted on instinct, setting down the plunger and the dirty mat, washing her hands at the sink, and walking back over with a clean towel.

From that floating wooden box, a single yellow thread extended, silently piercing into Karen's arm as his blood and vital energy began to be slowly drawn out.

So, the demands of that artifact spirit had grown so fastidious that it not only required the blood of so-called artists, but it had to be harvested at the very peak of their spiritual ecstasy—heh, such a dedication to craftsmanship, was it?

Just as the woman's hand was about to brush against his flesh, Karen raised his arm.

"Hum—"

The woman's gaze turned momentarily vacant before instantly snapping back to clarity, whereupon she stepped aside and began bathing an invisible figure, destined to continue serving a phantom.

For the effects of the formation originally intended for the guest had been transferred onto the woman by Karen.

For the prestigious Chief of the Law Enforcement Department of the York City Area's Whip of Order, dealing with a low-level priestess of the Abyss Cult was truly a matter of utmost simplicity.

And the reason Karen chose to "pause" at this moment was not because he deemed his body so sacred and inviolable, but because he discovered another thread extending from the wooden box, connected to the chandelier above.

This was not a process of absorption, storage, transport, and consumption; this was an immediate extraction for instantaneous use, ensuring maximum freshness.

Concurrently, this implied another truth: the "user," or rather the "consumer," had to be right here within this manor!

Under such circumstances, Karen could never allow his own blood to be drawn in, for his blood harbored immense uncertainty; little Jerry could romp around vibrantly inside Richard's body, but within his own, the creature could not survive for even a minute.

"Crack!"

Karen snapped the thread that had pierced his arm, reclaiming the portion of blood that had already been drawn, and promptly retrieved the reagent bottle from his pocket, uncorking it to submerge the remaining segment of the thread inside.

Fortuitously, he had come prepared, having taken a spare from Richard in advance.

In this manner, Richard's blood would substitute for the process, averting any suspicion or alarm.

Having completed this, Karen raised his hand, and a white Chain of Order manifested from beneath his feet, snaking up into the air to coil around the wooden box before ultimately vanishing into it as Karen closed his eyes.

Back in the Abyss Cult's Old Wein Restaurant, Karen had used this very technique of "retrospection" to trace a skeleton back to its true master; this time, it would be countless times simpler, for not only was there a direct physical connection, but the target was also in the immediate vicinity.

Images began to coalesce in Karen's mind, still starting from this very suite, before his vision traced the thread downward, descending floor by floor until finally breaching the basement levels and plunging further into the subterranean depths.

Upon entering the underground realm, Karen sensed layer upon layer of meticulous seals and defensive arrays deployed all around, alongside several auras that sent a shiver through even his soul.

The defensive force arrayed down here was absurdly, preposterously formidable.

The Abyss Cult had actually managed to secretly assemble so many high-ranking priests right within York City, the traditional sphere of influence for Order.

This was a massive taboo, for it could easily provoke the other side into questioning your motives, or even speculating whether you intended to spark a war.

Given the sheer scale of the defenses here alone, the forces of the Whip of Order and the Regional Management Office would find launching an assault exceedingly difficult, incurring devastating casualties; at the very least, they would need to mobilize the garrison forces.

Inquisitor Dark, my dear uncle-in-law, you really have reeled in a massive fish this time.

Because Karen's "consciousness" was traveling along the thread, it flawlessly bypassed every single defense, ultimately arriving at the core chamber at the very bottom.

This was a hollowed-out subterranean vaulted space, featuring a thirteen-tiered sacrificial altar upon which rested a colossal black stone sarcophagus.

The lid of the sarcophagus had been cast aside, and the threads converged here in a dense web of at least dozens of strands, all plunging deep inside.

At that moment, Karen detected a familiar aura, and the latent desires within his heart suddenly flared up, though they were swiftly suppressed by his resolve.

The Lachesis Copper Coin!

Loya had given him the coordinates, indicating that a Lachesis coin lay in the waters near Wein, but Karen had been too consumed by various affairs to seek it out, knowing full well that it would be no simple salvage operation.

Much like the previous expedition to Compasini's burial grounds, which had seemed as mundane as a business trip but had nearly resulted in the total annihilation of his squad.

Yet, that very copper coin had now appeared here; had it been salvaged by the people of the Abyss Cult?

Perhaps amplified by the influence of the coin, Karen's desires expanded, and a sudden surge of wrath ignited within his mind:

How dare you steal what belongs to me?

In the suite upstairs, Karen immediately took a deep breath, suppressing the stray thoughts in his mind and solidifying the purity of his consciousness below.

No, there was another, far more potent aura down here that did not belong to the Lachesis Copper Coin!

As his consciousness delved deeper, Karen finally glimpsed the entirety of the scene below: the Lachesis coin had been placed upon the chest of the figure lying inside the coffin, and those threads were all wrapped around that figure's body.

Thus, it was not that the Lachesis coin had spawned a second artifact spirit, for here, the coin served merely as an... ornament?

Yet, the "guiding" effect of the Lachesis coin could not be ignored; as the source of sin, its influence was truly undeniable, meaning the individual lying below had originally merely required a certain amount of vital energy to replenish himself—one could say he was simply hungry and needed sustenance to appease his appetite, but under the influence of the coin, he had transformed into an exceptionally fastidious and discerning gourmet.

Finally, every veil blocking his vision was pierced through by Karen's consciousness, and the man resting within the coffin was laid bare to Karen's "sight."

His body was riddled with horrific wounds, exposing vast expanses of white bone, while auras of holiness and depravity intertwined across his form, devoid of conflict, presenting instead a bizarre harmony;

Furthermore, he possessed a pair of... black wings.

He was no human,

He was,

An angel!