Your Greatness!

"Good evening, dear listeners. Welcome to Rojia Story Hour..." In truth, Karen had never set foot in this house before, but Jeff's cold corpse, once laid out before him, had long since "told" him of the danger and mystery within its walls. There were many things Karen couldn't conveniently ask about, but that didn't stop him from pondering, reflecting, and piecing the puzzle together in his mind. Uncle Mason, out of lingering sentiment for his first love, had helped dispose of "Jeff's" body. That afternoon, Grandfather returned. Upon seeing Jeff's corpse, he immediately ordered Aunt Mary to phone Uncle Mason and call him back. Then Grandfather went out. Later, on the way back from taking Mr. Hoffen to the hospital, Karen had personally helped treat Grandfather's wounds. Obviously, Grandfather had gone out to fight. More precisely, Grandfather had gone to deal with a situation—one very likely tied to Jeff's death, and therefore tied to this very house. Uncle Mason, who was unable to get out of bed that day after "taking a fall," was the best proof. Later still, when passing by the house, Karen had spotted that leg on the second-floor windowsill, a red high heel dangling from its toes. Grandfather had gone to deal with it, yet those legs and those red high heels were still there. That could mean only one thing: this matter was terribly troublesome—so much so that even Grandfather hadn't managed to clean it up completely. Furthermore, they were on the same street, barely five or six hundred meters apart. For both sides to continue coexisting at such close quarters was proof enough of just how thorny this house was. In addition, when dealing with Jeff, Karen had been dragged into a terrifying dreamscape. In that dream, besides that woman, Karen had heard several peculiar sounds. Static. Magnetic, low, deep—the sound coming from a radio. Of course, all of this had previously been nothing more than his deductions and conjecture. But when he walked into the master bedroom and saw that only the bare wooden bedframe remained—the mattress cleared away entirely—while the radio on the cabinet by the door sat untouched... He understood. That thing was the true switch. Urging Mrs. Hughes to turn on the radio "in the name of art" was Karen's final attempt at self-preservation. He hadn't been particularly worried that Mrs. Hughes would refuse the suggestion. Because she truly was stupid. Even though the killer currently had a gun pointed at him and intended to mince him with a knife, Karen stubbornly maintained that the killer was stupid! Now, the radio was on. Karen let out a long breath in his heart, the crushing burden lifting in an instant. When the worst-case scenario was being chopped into mincemeat, dragging your enemy down with you seemed remarkably splendid. What Karen didn't know, however, was that the radio was not a "switch" at all. Whether you pressed the power knob, whether batteries were inserted, whether it was plugged in, or even if it were an empty shell with nothing inside, none of it would stop it from broadcasting when it wished to. ... [Rewind ten minutes.] When Karen parked Mrs. Hughes's red Cayman sedan in front of 128 Mink Street, there was already movement on the second floor. A pair of shapely legs in high heels stood behind the curtains, heels tapping softly against the floorboards. "What is it?" Alfred's voice drifted from the radio. "He's here?" "Who's here?" "Who is he?" "What—it's him?!" Alfred's voice betrayed a distinct, trembling terror. Some things seemed horrifying at first glance, but over time, they would fade and be treated as ordinary. Like a nightmare—no matter how vivid the nightmare, waking up dispelled seventy or eighty percent of the fear in an instant, leaving only a lingering tremor; give it half a day or a full day, and it seemed like nothing at all, something you could even recount as a joke. Yet other things were like fine wine: the longer they aged, the richer they became, lingering indefinitely on the palate, etching an ever-deeper impression in the soul. Alfred belonged to this latter sort. The connection between him and Ms. Molly was a bridge across their spirits. That terrifying existence had descended directly between them, a display of might that was indeed enough to strike terror into his heart. Yet what had truly inflicted lasting damage upon him—its influence only growing more pronounced with time—was the mysterious "holy hymn" chanted by that entity. That hymn had effortlessly shattered Ms. Molly's boundary, while casting a profound psychological shadow over Alfred, who had "watched" from the sidelines. Afterward, he had frantically combed through countless records and ancient tomes, yet failed to find the slightest trace of that "holy hymn." It seemed to have appeared out of thin air, having left no mark in the long river of history. That was practically impossible! For a religion to form, there had to be a "god"—whether a singular deity or a pantheon. In short, the presence of a god was required above the heads of the believers. Once a god existed, there would be doctrines to expound upon the god's will, helping the faithful understand and follow divine thought. Once god and doctrines existed, the next step was the most vital, an endless cycle that kept the faith alive: proselytization. More and more believers would constantly revise and enrich the doctrines with their thoughts and wisdom, bringing the image of the god into sharper focus while bridging the distance between god and mortals, thereby drawing in new converts more easily, snowballing over time. This was the objective law of development for any religion. Yet could anyone believe it? A terrifying, fully realized "holy hymn" had appeared, and yet there was not the slightest trace of the religion behind it! It was as if you bent down and picked up a fresh saltwater fish, only to look around and find yourself surrounded by a thousand miles of desert. What terrified Alfred even more was that the language of the "holy hymn" had no origin either. He had examined numerous language families, even tracing back to letter combinations of ancient tongues from the dawn of civilization, but nothing matched the language of the hymn. Yet when the "holy hymn" was chanted, one could clearly sense that this was a fluid, rhythmic, and immensely mature tongue! Its allure far surpassed most modern languages Alfred knew. He almost regretted possessing an eidetic auditory memory. It had caused the cadence of the hymn to echo in his ears from time to time over the past few days, filling him with palpitations each time. It felt as though within that song, his body, his soul, and everything he relied upon would be trampled underfoot, ground into dust! A religion without a trace, a language without an origin— this forced Alfred to accept a single reality: He was witnessing the birth of a brand-new religion! In this world, there were many churches that had been passed down for a thousand years or even longer. Some could be traced back to the previous era. Their founders and creators were sometimes the incarnations of the gods themselves, or styled themselves as servants of the gods; Yet without exception, every single creator was a terrifying existence known as an emissary of god. They tore open a rift in the world with sheer force, carving out space for the inheritance and growth of their faith. Thus, this was a great existence, an existence commanding awe and reverence. Perhaps a hundred, five hundred, or a thousand years from now, the stories he told would become myths, and his own deeds would become legend. The thought that such a dreadful being had once descended upon his spiritual bridge filled Alfred with lingering dread. He had appeared. He had appeared in Ruilan, in Rojia, on Mink Street. Could it be that he had chosen this place to sow his very first seed? Beneath this boundless terror, another emotion swelled within Alfred's heart—an emotion called "hope." While it was still a seed, could he draw near? Along the arc of a god and their religion's rise, even a stray dog that wandered into the frame would be remembered and praised by future generations! Yet Alfred only dared entertain this thought with the utmost caution. In the tales of gods, there were not only accounts of petting and guiding stray dogs encountered on the roadside, but far more stories of slaying demons. And yet, tonight, he had come knocking at the door. ... "He's out of the car. He brought a woman? Is she his divine consort, or perhaps his attendant?" "Hm? Looks like his mother?" "Could it be... he is a god descended, and that woman is the mortal vessel who bore him?" In certain religions, gods descended into the mortal world through the wombs of human women. In religious legends, the maternal vessel that gave birth to a god was accorded supreme status, forever worshipped and revered by subsequent generations of believers. "They've come inside?" "They're already heading up the stairs?" "Coming straight for the bedroom?" "Ms. Molly, hide yourself well! Your initial insolence might have been dismissed as a bit of fun by him, but if an ant dares provoke him a second time, it will surely suffer divine retribution!" The red high heels bent down and slid beneath the bed. The space under the bed was low for anyone else, but for her, it was a perfect fit. ... "This woman is holding a gun? Hehehe, what a foolish woman, daring to threaten an emissary of god walking the earth with a firearm." "Ms. Molly, look. Whatever the woman says, the emissary obeys—because in his eyes, all of this is merely a joke, his amusement for the evening." "Just like you were last time—one of his playthings." "Church of Order? Ankara? Light of Order?" "This woman is utterly foolish. Does she think the emissary is truly instructing her? No, he is preparing his punishment for her." "Ms. Molly, do not move. This is the playground chosen by the emissary himself, part of his amusement tonight. We need only watch in silence and not disturb him—unless the emissary calls upon us. Perhaps tonight, we are merely the 'audience' chosen by the emissary. We must fulfill our duty as the audience: remain quiet during the performance, and applaud vigorously when required." "Hm? This woman is possessed. She must have come into contact with a corrupted magical artifact, sullying her soul." "Oh, what a pitiable woman. She has no idea what she is facing—nor does the aberrant demon tainting and controlling her." "There are always insignificant nobodies who love courting death, simply because their vision is too narrow to perceive the truth and the gulf between them." "Ms. Molly, you say you wish to act and redeem your sins?" "Rest assured, the emissary will not care about your sins. The eyes of a god wouldn't spare you a second glance." "Please do not be rash, Ms. Molly." "Hm? You want to beseech this lord emissary to help restore your body? No, no, no! Don't you know what that entails? Helping any aberrant demon reshape its body and take on humanoid form is an absolute taboo for religions like the Church of Order!" "Ms. Molly, I know how deep your obsession runs, but please restrain yourself. Your recklessness could very well drag me into a bottomless vortex as well." "Enough. My physical body has arrived on Mink Street. I am almost there." "I am already in the street outside the gates, but... I don't dare enter." "Heavens, knowing he is inside, even standing out here, I subconsciously slow my breathing, as if drawing a slightly heavier breath would disturb this towering presence." "He must have noticed me already. Even though I used every method at my disposal to conceal my aura and hide, everything around him must be laid bare before his discerning gaze." ... "Ah, the lord emissary commanded this aberrant demon possessing a mortal to turn on the radio." "Ms. Molly, look, what did I tell you? He truly discovered me long ago. The stealth I took such pride in is nothing more than a joke before him." "I am merely a lowly ant." "This ant awaits your summons!" ... Outside the courtyard gate of 128 Mink Street. A man in a red suit silently tilted up the brim of his hat, revealing eyes that resembled a blood moon. At the same time, his lips parted. Yet his voice emanated from the radio inside the second-floor master bedroom: "Good evening, dear listeners. Welcome to Rojia Story Hour. I am the host of the program, the humble Alfred." After uttering those words, the red-suited man outside closed his lips, and the voice from the radio fell silent as well. To Karen's ears, however, that voice sounded like heavenly music. Indeed, it had appeared in that nightmare. It was that very voice. Earlier, Karen had been worried: what if the "ghosts" in this house had moved away with the previous owners? Now there was no need to worry. The living had moved away, but they were still here. Karen wasn't sure what to call the "filthy things" inhabiting this house. Were they ghosts, or... aberrant demons? Whatever they were, they were entities Diss couldn't eliminate right away, entities capable of living as neighbors right under Diss's nose! Clearly, Mrs. Hughes knew nothing of these intricacies. She simply frowned and said with a touch of regret: "I don't want to hear a story; I want to hear a song. But if there is no music, I can only treat it as an imperfection—and imperfection itself is an artistic beauty. I can't wait any longer, my dear Karen." Mrs. Hughes held the gun in her left hand and raised the knife in her right. "Karen, so handsome that you make me—no, make both of us salivate—do you want to take a bullet first, or a knife? I suggest you pick the knife. If a shot rings out, I'll have to chop you up very quickly and hurry away, which might leave behind many parts of you. If you choose to let me hack you to death in silence, I will mince you finely, without letting a single scrap of meat go to waste. Hm? Why haven't you chosen yet? What are you waiting for?" Mrs. Hughes advanced toward Karen, her expression hideous. Karen, sitting at the edge of the bed, couldn't stop glancing toward the radio. What the hell? Didn't you already respond? Why did you go silent after reciting a single line? Fuck, don't tell me aberrant demons don't fight aberrant demons? Wait... Aren't I an aberrant demon too? Why does Mrs. Hughes want to kill me? ... Outside the courtyard gate, the cuffs of the red suit fluttered gently in the evening breeze. Beneath Alfred's handsome, somber countenance lay a pair of tranquil, blood-colored eyes. He didn't dare say another word, terrified of spoiling the lord emissary's mood. He didn't dare act on his own initiative, afraid of disrupting the lord emissary's rhythm. He tread softly, filled with caution. At the same time, he ignored Ms. Molly's repeated pleas. ... Mrs. Hughes had already reached Karen. Tilting her head, a smile blooming on her face, she asked softly, "What are you... still waiting for?" With that, she raised the butcher's knife toward Karen! Spurred by this sight, Karen shouted at the top of his lungs: "What are you waiting for?!" ... Outside the gate, the wind stirred. Alfred's red silhouette vanished from the street. In the next instant, the French window shattered soundlessly. The glass didn't spray everywhere; rather, like cotton candy blowing apart, it drifted gently to the floor. All of this happened far too fast. Mrs. Hughes had just been about to bring the knife down on Karen when she found, to her astonishment, that a figure had appeared between them. He knelt there on one knee. "Alfred obeys your summons." "What is this?!" Mrs. Hughes screeched almost hysterically. At the same time, the knife continued its downward plunge—aimed now at this red-suited man. Alfred turned his head and looked at Mrs. Hughes behind him. At that instant, Alfred's crimson eyes flared with an eerie luminescence. In a flash, Mrs. Hughes froze solid, locked in her knife-swinging posture, utterly unable to move. Alfred turned back around, maintaining his posture on one knee, not even daring to meet the gaze of the "great" existence sitting by the bed. He placed his right hand over his chest, incomparably humble: "Forgive my presumptuous inquiry: Shall I, in accordance with the will of Your Greatness, punish this defiler before us in the manner of the Light of Order?" I... Karen's eyes widened. He had envisioned many possible scenarios. The first—and already ruled out—was that the "ghosts" of this house weren't home and he would be chopped to pieces. Next was both sides' ghosts clashing like dogs tearing into each other. Finally, he would likely be killed by the victor. Yet no matter how wildly he had speculated, he had never imagined a scene like this! Who is he? Why is he kneeling before me? Who am I? Where am I? What am I even doing? However, even though his brain was completely blank and in a state of system freeze, that didn't stop Karen from playing along with the man's words, letting out a single syllable: "Mm..." Thank goodness it was only one syllable; otherwise, the chattering of his teeth wouldn't have stayed hidden. Karen was certain he couldn't have managed a single complete sentence right now. "Alfred obeys your will." With those words, Alfred, still kneeling on one knee with head bowed in deep humility, called out: "Ms. Molly." "Eeeeee... yaahhh!!!!" A piercing, blood-curdling shriek erupted from beneath the bed. Karen, sitting at the bedside, nearly leapt out of his skin in fright. Fortunately, his knees had long since turned to jelly, so even though his feet were planted on the floor, he failed to stand up, remaining seated by the bed. A pair of legs, a face. Karen once again saw the terrifying woman from his dream, only this time, it was in reality. He saw the woman open her mouth. A mouth that had seemed normal was expanding without limit, stretching to an unbelievable degree—as wide as an adult man was tall. And the immobilized Mrs. Hughes could only stare in horror, her body dragged helplessly toward that gaping maw. It was evident she was struggling, terrified, but her struggles were utterly futile. Karen had experienced Ms. Molly's terror in the dream—her chewing, her swallowing. He knew just how horrific this was. Mrs. Hughes's thrashing body began to fracture. Her hands, her feet, her neck, every part of her body was crisscrossed with thin red lines of blood. Simultaneously, even finer divisions were underway. She began to flake apart. Like rubbing a slice of bread between your hands, the whole slice crumbling into handfuls of crumbs. A mass of black light detached from the body. It seemed intent on fleeing, but in the next second, Ms. Molly swallowed it whole into her cavernous mouth. Her dark spots faded once the black light vanished. A look of relief washed over Mrs. Hughes's face. Her gaze fell upon Karen sitting by the bed, filled with gentleness, the corners of her mouth curving slightly. Karen believed that at this moment, Mrs. Hughes—the real Mrs. Hughes—had returned. Karen's heart trembled. He raised a hand reflexively, wanting to shout for them to stop. If Mrs. Hughes had committed murder only because she was possessed by a "ghost," then Mrs. Hughes herself should be innocent, especially now that the "ghost" was destroyed. But before Karen could make a sound, Mrs. Hughes's body shattered completely, dissolving into a cloud of bloody mist that was sucked into Ms. Molly's mouth. All that remained on the floor was a pile of Mrs. Hughes's clothes; Mrs. Hughes herself was gone. Ms. Molly, consisting of nothing more than a pair of legs and a face, dropped to one knee before Karen after swallowing Mrs. Hughes. And Karen, looking down at Mrs. Hughes's dress, undergarments, and black lace upon the floor, fell into silence. A faint sorrow rippled through his heart. The God of Order established the rules of order, and the first to violate order was his own daughter. In the end, the God of Order chose to cast his daughter Ankara into the beast's jaws to defend the sanctity of order. This was the Light of Order.