Misunderstanding

"He's dead?" "Yes. As the appointment time drew near, the secretarial desk began trying to reach Mr. Tardel, but the butler at his residence kept telling us that he had already left in his car to head our way. "So we assumed he might have run into traffic or been held up by something else. "However, during our last call, the butler informed us that Mr. Tardel was in a car crash. He didn't make it." "So sudden." Miss Bertha tapped her temple with a finger. "They said a piece of rebar pierced straight through his head during the crash." Karen sighed. "A moment of silent prayer for Mr. Tardel. May the Goddess of Nature guide his soul." "Mm, may the Light watch over his soul," Miss Bertha added. "We will follow up on the subsequent arrangements. Naturally, not to demand the appointment fee, but simply as basic client care from the clinic. Oh, right, Mr. Karen, you may call it a day early." "All right. Thank you for your hard work." Karen nodded. After slipping the intake background profile into his briefcase, he picked it up and walked out of the office. Stepping into the elevator, Karen fell into deep thought. He did not believe Mr. Tardel's death was a mere traffic accident. When the elevator reached the ground floor and the doors slid open, Karen saw a middle-aged man in a red crewneck sweater standing at the entrance. Behind him stood a group of bodyguards in black suits. The posture and bearing of bodyguards were far too easy to recognize; after all, Karen had lived at Allen Manor for quite some time. The middle-aged man's gaze swept over Karen. Karen immediately showed a look of fright, as though thoroughly intimidated by the imposing aura of this group, and edged cautiously past them against the corner of the elevator. The middle-aged man led his bodyguards inside. Once the elevator doors shut, the panic on Karen's face vanished. Who were those people heading upstairs? Having just become a God's Shepherd, Karen's intuition had improved considerably. Of course, that was still no match for actively casting a detection spell. Yet casting detection spells recklessly was foolish—just like that female guard at the clinic who had scanned Alfred repeatedly, as Alfred had mentioned. Lost in thought, Karen stepped out of the building. Just then, a young girl clutching a large bag of potato chips walked toward him, looking as though she intended to bump straight into him. Preoccupied as Karen was, his senses were sharp enough to notice. Just before they could collide, he stopped short and stepped aside. The girl, who had fully prepared herself for an accidental collision, was caught completely off guard. She lost her balance and took a tumble. Smack! That was the sound of potato chips scattering all over the ground. Thud! That was the sound of the girl falling face-first onto the pavement. Fortunately, she had tossed aside her beloved chips in time and caught herself with both hands, sparing her face an intimate encounter with the asphalt. Karen did not offer to help her up. Instead, he stepped around her, doing his best to avoid the chips on the ground as he headed straight for his car parked by the curb. The girl had already raised a hand in anticipation, but after waiting a long time without him coming over to pull her up, she looked up and saw that he was already by the street. Thinking of her brother's words, combined with the sheer embarrassment of her fall, she found the nerve from who-knew-where to scramble to her feet and sprint toward Karen. Karen heard the hurried footsteps rushing toward him from behind. It was a pity he did not have a gun in his jacket. If he had, his first reaction would have been to reach inside for it. He turned around and finally got a clear look at her face. It was the young girl from the taxi who had once asked him, *Big brother, do you want some potato chips?* "You really have no gentlemanly manners at all!" the girl said, puffing out her cheeks in annoyance. "Miss, is something the matter?" Karen asked. "Do you have any idea how long I've been wandering around here just to run into you?" she demanded, hands on her hips. "What did you want to see me about, Miss?" "To thank you for saving me last time, of course!" "Which time?" "That time!" The girl waved her arms. "The explosion!" Karen hesitated. His instinct told him he ought to put on a shocked expression and ask in disbelief, *What? That little girl was you?* or *Stop joking, how could that be possible!* However, that little girl had witnessed him using defensive spells. If this was really her, continuing to act would be pointless. "All right. Thank you received. No need to be so polite." Karen opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat. Right then, the passenger door was yanked open. The girl climbed inside, slammed the door shut, and slapped her own thigh in discontent. "Hey! Do you really have to be this cold?" "Miss, what on earth do you want?" "Aren't you even curious why I grew up all of a sudden?" The girl blinked at Karen. *Ask me! Ask me and I'll tell you I grew up fast just to repay you for saving my life!* "Eat fewer snacks. They might contain hormones." "..." The girl was speechless. "I apologize, but if you could leave your contact information, I have urgent matters to attend to right now. We can arrange another time to meet." "Hmph." The girl was genuinely furious. She had imagined all sorts of scenarios for their reunion, but in every single one, they bumped into each other and he caught her in his arms just before she fell—not her face-planting flat on the ground right in front of him. Right then, Karen saw the middle-aged man in the red sweater emerge from the building with his bodyguards. One bodyguard held a photograph as though verifying something, while the others scanned the surroundings. An instinct told Karen that they were looking for him. Karen immediately reached out and pulled the girl close, positioning them to look as though they were kissing in the car, using her back to shield himself from view. After looking around to no avail, the group climbed into a car parked ahead. While Karen kept track of their movements through the corner of his eye, the girl had genuinely believed he was going to kiss her. She had willingly closed her eyes, her eyelashes trembling softly. Once their car pulled away, Karen pushed her back. "..." The girl stared at him. Just then, Karen spotted Miss Bertha stepping out on the ground floor of the building. Confirming that the men were gone, Karen got out of the car and walked straight over to Miss Bertha. "Mr. Karen." Miss Bertha took the initiative to approach him as well, cutting straight to the point without any pleasantries. "A group claiming to be Mr. Tardel's relatives just came by to ask about his appointment schedule. They also asked who his assigned therapist was. They knew your name, and they tore down your photo from the doctors' directory and took it with them." "Not ordinary people?" Karen asked. "No. The man leading them radiated a distinct aura belonging to a family faith system," Bertha said. "Though it shouldn't be too big a problem. Our relationship with Mr. Tardel's family was purely professional, wasn't it?" "Miss Bertha, are you probing me?" Karen asked. "Of course not." "My connection to Mr. Tardel was strictly professional as well. If I had any other dealings with him, why go through the extra trouble of arranging to meet at the clinic?" "You make a good point. So Mr. Tardel was simply silenced because of something he was planning to do or had already done?" To have people show up looking into his itinerary for the day right after he died in a "car crash" was far too blatant an objective. "Mm." Karen asked, "Besides my photo, what else did they want?" "They asked for your address." "And you gave it to them?" "Yes," Miss Bertha replied. "Though I gave them the address on Apple Street." "Apple Street?" Apple Street was not far from here, situated in a prime downtown area. "It's the boss's address," Miss Bertha explained. "Does Piaget know you did this?" "The boss went to an art exhibition today and isn't at the clinic, so he doesn't know yet. But I believe if he were here, he would agree. We couldn't possibly hand over your real address to a bunch of suspicious characters." "They'll find out whose house that is." "Oh, certainly. That's why I told them you live with our boss." "..." Karen fell silent. "A house where one man lives doesn't look all that different from a house where two men live." "They might go search Piaget's home." "You needn't worry about that. We privately search the boss's house even more frequently than anyone else. There's nothing unpresentable there." "All right." "So I suggest you go to the boss's house now, or in a little while, to put on a show. "Here's the key. It's No. 3-06 Apple Street, a villa registered under the boss's father, where the boss currently resides. "I think as long as you truly have no dealings with Mr. Tardel outside of work, putting on an act and explaining yourself will suffice. They're merely checking off suspects; they should be easy to deal with. "Additionally, to be frank with you, our people are stationed nearby protecting the boss's home, so your safety can be fully guaranteed—though I doubt you really need our protection." *As long as you truly have no dealings with Mr. Tardel outside of work...* There was an underlying accusation in her words, showing she still suspected him. Karen lowered his voice and asked, "Tell me the truth. You weren't the ones who killed Mr. Tardel, were you?" "Why would we kill him? He was our client." "'We' and 'we' are not the same thing," Karen reminded her. "Anything is possible, isn't it? What if Mr. Tardel discovered something amiss at the clinic?" "Then why would he still make an appointment to come here?" "I never received a call from him. You were always the one telling me there was an appointment." "That is utterly absurd! How could you suspect such a thing?" "You suspected me first, so you were the absurd one first." Miss Bertha pursed her lips and nodded. "I apologize. I hope you understand that while your Berry religion may merely operate in the shadows, our Light would truly perish upon exposure. Whenever we interact with circles beyond ordinary mortals, it is difficult not to overreact." "Understood. I hope there can be more trust between us." "Of course. But who is that...?" Bertha had clearly noticed the girl sitting in Karen's passenger seat. "A young lady I just met," Karen answered honestly. "Actually, quite a few female therapists at the clinic would be willing," Miss Bertha said, gesturing toward herself. "Including me." "I prefer someone simpler," Karen said. "Naturally. You have the right to choose your own tastes." Karen turned and walked back to his car. The girl was still in the passenger seat. Karen did not kick her out; instead, he started the engine and drove off. Bertha walked back into the building, where Rebecca, the clinic's female guard, approached her. "It shouldn't have anything to do with him. Just fallout from Mr. Tardel's death." "Then things are simple." Bertha added, "Send word down to find out which family those people belong to, but don't alert them." "Understood, my lady." "Also, notify the guards watching over the boss to create an accident to delay his return. "Then inform the team stationed near the boss's house that Mr. Karen will be heading there. Whatever happens between Mr. Karen and that group, they are not to interfere. "Seeing those vermin from a family faith system swagger around in front of us is irritating, but there's no need to drag ourselves into the mud over a few bugs." "Yes, Envoy." *** "Did you run into some trouble?" the girl in the passenger seat asked. "Where do you live? I'll drive you home." "Hey, aren't you the least bit curious how I suddenly grew up?" "Very curious, but I don't have the energy to ask right now." "So you really did run into trouble." "Nothing major. It's manageable." "You can come home with me. My brother wants to see you." "I don't even know your name, and you want me to go home with you to meet your brother?" "My name is Serena. What's yours?" "Silva." "I think that's a fake name." "It is." "You're so dismissive." The girl pouted, but continued, "What I mean is, if someone is giving you a hard time, my brother can help you fight them. My brother is very good at fighting, unlike me." "Your brother truly has a wonderful sister, bringing trouble right to his doorstep on her own initiative." "You saved me, so isn't it only natural for my brother to help you out in return?" "I didn't save you expecting a favor. Back then, I only saw you as a little girl. Besides, the trouble I'm facing isn't huge right now, but it could easily drag in serious danger. So be a good girl and go home. Where do you live?" "Lemar Pottery Studio on Second Street up ahead." "That's very close." "Mm, yes." Soon enough, Karen pulled up outside the pottery studio. "Get out, Serena." "You really won't come in and sit for a while?" the girl asked. "No. Send my regards to your brother—though I have no idea if that's actually your brother inside." After all, last time the little girl had explicitly claimed she was traveling from her mother's house to her father's, and that her stepfather had given her extra pocket money. As if recalling something, Serena said, "I wasn't lying to you back then, honestly." "All right, all right. Go inside. Home is safe. Once I finish what I need to do, I'll pay a visit." "Okay, then." Serena got out of the car, waved at Karen, and walked into the pottery studio. Karen smiled faintly. He knew this girl was far from ordinary, and her family had to be extraordinary as well. Furthermore, he did not believe she harbored any malice toward him: first, because he truly had saved her, and second, because her behavior today genuinely looked like that of someone who had sought him out to pursue a romance. Glancing at the house key sitting in the car, should he really go to Piaget's home to put on this show? Better to go. He truly had no substantive contact with Mr. Tardel, and if he did not clear his name as a suspect, it could easily invite far more complications down the line. Turning the steering wheel, Karen did not head straight for Apple Street. Instead, he drove toward the hospital. He wanted to check on Alfred, who was ever-loyal to him. *** Inside the restroom of the art gallery, Piaget's private driver stood by the window. A black crow landed on the sill. The driver took the slip of paper from its leg, which instructed him to stage an accident to delay his boss's return home. *Mm, this task shouldn't be difficult.* The driver crumpled the note into dust, walked over to the sink to wash his hands, and stepped out back into the gallery area. The boss had just been viewing paintings in this section. *Huh, not here?* *He should be in the next section. Wait, not there either?* The driver was not particularly anxious and continued searching. Since the boss had arrived in his car, if he wanted to leave, he would naturally seek him out. He assumed the boss was simply standing quietly in some corner, admiring a painting. In truth, Piaget had already stepped outside the exhibition and climbed into a luxury car. "I've been waiting for you. I don't know why, but I had a feeling you would appear before me," Piaget said to the man seated beside him. The man removed his hat, revealing the refined face of a middle-aged gentleman. Mr. Bede smiled. "That means you share an affinity with the God of the Wall." "You're actually smiling?" "In your premonition, was I supposed to be weeping?" "It was an emotion far more painful than tears." "Oh, is that so?" "It seems my intuition was wrong," Piaget remarked. "No, actually, it wasn't." "There is something I've been meaning to ask you. Did you visit Rojia City a while ago?" "I did." "Linda's matter..." "That was Linda's own choice. As her husband, the man who loved her, you can sense that." "There's a favor I'd like to ask of you." "Speak." "I wish to see it—that scenery that left Linda so captivated." "Very well," Mr. Bede agreed. "Let's chat over coffee," Piaget suggested. "Fine. Shall we go to the cafe we used to frequent?" "That cafe closed long ago. Come to my place. I have some fine coffee beans at home. Oh, and exquisite painting tools as well." *** "Have you checked everything?" the man in the red sweater asked. "Mr. Gerson, we've searched thoroughly. There was nothing of interest in the house." "Then we wait a bit longer. Once that therapist named Silva returns, we'll question him to his face." Gerson drew back the curtains on the second floor and looked outside. "Sir, according to the butler we planted at Tardel's residence, ever since Tardel returned from the clinic with his son that time, he couldn't stop praising that therapist's exceptional skill." "Heh, skill?" Gerson sneered, looking at the photograph in his hand. "What skill? He was clearly taken by the man's looks and took a fancy to him. Other men go to convents seeking nuns; Tardel preferred monks. "This therapist lives together with his male employer, and happens to be of the exact same inclination as Tardel. "I doubt we'll pry anything useful out of this therapist. This lead is likely nothing more than an irrelevant diversion. "As for why Tardel chose betrayal, we'll have to look for clues from other directions." "Sir, you could have left these matters to us. Why did you have to come in person?" "With the patriarch's sudden death, our Raphael family is already in turmoil. Under no circumstances can we afford another mishap in our businesses, especially the blood spirit powder trade! It doesn't just mean point coupon revenue; it binds our Raphael family to the Church of Order! "My eldest brother is preparing to contend for the position of patriarch, so as his younger brother, I have to oversee this personally. "Furthermore, that troublesome Inquisitor has already been detained on that end, and they have already expressed dissatisfaction with our lack of rigor. We cannot afford any more mistakes." "Understood, sir. Sir, look! A car has arrived." A car pulled up outside the entrance, and two men stepped out. "Sir, that's the clinic owner. His large photograph is posted right at the clinic's entrance. Is the other one the therapist? He looks a bit older..." Gerson's eyes went wide. Staring at the man beside Piaget, his expression instantly contorted into shock and fury. "It's the patriarch of the Allen family!" The Allen family was actually connected to this clinic! Tardel's visit to this clinic hadn't been for any psychological issue, nor was it to see a handsome male therapist—he had come to leak secrets to the Allen family! In that split second, Gerson made an instinctive choice, one that discarded all other trivial considerations and boiled down to pure primal impulse. When you encounter the lone patriarch of a rival family, what choice do you make? Gerson's choice was simple: "Kill them!"