Prep the Ingredients

Alfred was driving. In the back of the hearse, Karen and Diss sat facing each other. Diss had his eyes closed, resting. Karen kept his gaze fixed on the rectangular hollow in the hearse's bed before him. With each jolt of the vehicle, the chief editor and Mr. Morf repeatedly jostled together in an awkward embrace. Inside the cabin, the smoky aroma of cigars mingled with the faint, sharp tang of fountain pen ink. It wasn't unpleasant; with the windows rolled down to maintain a constant cross-breeze, it was even somewhat refreshing. Purr crouched beside Karen, seemingly dozing. Karen extended a hand out the window, feeling the cool rush of air flow across his palm. The weather was rather brisk, particularly at night, yet Karen could feel a lingering heat in his palm. When confronting Mr. Morf on the floor, he had spoken from the heart: "Praise Order." Yet reason persistently reminded him that while the Church of Order had to be immensely powerful, he still couldn't entirely believe that his sole license to act with such abandon tonight was merely because his grandfather was a local Inquisitor for the Church of Order. To put it differently, it was not because Diss was an Inquisitor, but because the Inquisitor was Diss. He remembered Alfred once mentioning that his grandfather was no ordinary Church of Order Inquisitor. Indeed. How could a Diss who dared declare to his face that "the God of Order is a whore's son"—a grandfather who hadn't hesitated to stage a god descent ritual far beyond normal allowances just to resurrect his grandson—possibly be an ordinary Inquisitor? Thinking back further... Yesterday in the hearse, Alfred had suggested: *Young Master, you could go ask your grandfather.* And Purr's words at the landing: *Go see Diss. He can always give you the calmest and soundest advice.* Were the two of them truly referring to Diss's status as an Inquisitor? No, they were referring to Diss himself. Perhaps what lay revealed before him now was merely the tip of the iceberg regarding this world's true face. So what next? Should he continue pulling back the curtain, or, after tonight's indulgence, cast it all behind him and return to living as an ordinary person, just like Uncle Mason? That true face was steeped in cruelty; the deaths of "Karen's" parents were proof enough of that. But having glimpsed such wondrous vistas, burying his head in the sand like an ostrich felt too much like lying to himself. Could he ever be content with that? Probably not. He knew his own temperament well—he was unyielding to the bone. A person accustomed to striving in his past life might manage a brief pause in peaceful, quiet years, but lying flat forever was something he simply couldn't do. Then again, whether he could or couldn't wasn't entirely up to him. Diss's stance had been plain. He had told Karen himself that as long as he was breathing, Karen wasn't to harbor any other notions. Yet if that were so, why bring him out tonight, going out of his way to use that formation so Karen could... enjoy himself to the fullest? In truth, Diss must have realized that the formation had produced little effect on him. It might not have been obvious at the time, but now? He had to see Karen's current state of mind. Yet he acted as though he were deliberately giving Karen a way to save face. He explicitly forbade Karen from learning to drive, yet relished driving him out to take in the real scenery flanking the road. So, Diss, what exactly are you after? Is it truly just a grandfather's complex, tangled affection? "Are you happy?" At some point, Diss had opened his eyes. Karen drew his hand back inside and nodded. "I am." "Does it weigh on you?" Diss asked again. Karen nodded, then shook his head. "It does, but I can manage." Watching living people die before his eyes was indeed a heavy psychological shock. However, he had always been adept at regulating his emotions. More importantly, these people—like the chief editor and Mr. Morf lying here—toyed with others' lives as casually as fiddling with a pen cap or a cigar. Under the rules of ordinary society, punishing them was virtually impossible; even using tremendous force, one could barely graze the hem of their clothes. Yet they undeniably deserved death. A life for a life—that truth held firm anywhere. Thus, he was simply carrying out something everyone agreed was right, yet in reality, nearly everyone considered impossible to achieve. Of course, Karen didn't view himself as Batman or some avatar of justice operating in the city's shadows. He couldn't deny that throughout this process, he had genuinely felt a surge of joy. That joy had been steadily compounding ever since he saw Diss's reaction—while frying spring rolls, while observing the mourning ceremony, while watching group after group deliver their performances. His anticipation had stacked higher and higher, and once night fell, that immense anticipation gradually transformed into joy. He was enjoying the process. Mr. Morf, choked to death on smoke. The chief editor, impaled and slain by his own fountain pens. Ha. What an artistic expression. Karen's mind drifted back to that afternoon a month ago, when he had picked up the receiver and heard the male aberrant demon possessing Mrs. Hughes: *"You've disrupted my artistic creation."* *"In that case, do you need some professional artistic advice?"* Mrs. Hughes, take a look. *This* is what you call art. A sudden chill ran down Karen's spine, like a child stacking building blocks who abruptly loses all interest mid-game, shifting from sheer enthusiasm to utter boredom. Diss spoke up. "So, do you wish to turn back now?" "No, I don't," Karen replied. "Why? I just read negativity in your eyes." "Because it isn't finished." Karen swallowed the words "the artwork" and said instead, "The matter isn't finished. The Light of Order above Rojia City has yet to wipe away all the grime." "Good." Diss nodded. "Very good." After a moment, Diss added, "Remember this in the future: the first step of Order is always applied to oneself." "I'll remember, Grandfather." So that was why heroes favored masks. Perhaps it wasn't to hide the instinctive smile of pleasure that surfaced when punishing evil, but to conceal the fading of emotion and the creeping numbness that came with it. Recalling Diss's two earlier acts of "enforcement," Karen couldn't help musing aloud, "Order is like a mask." Diss closed his eyes, seeming utterly unresponsive to the remark. Yet where his hands rested clasped before him, his fingertips twitched with an uncontrollable tremor. Purr, who had been dozing, lifted its head and looked at Karen across from it. In the cat's mind surfaced words spoken decades ago by a young Diss returning from the headquarters of the Church of Order: *"The temple elder asked me a question. He asked, 'What is Order to believers like us?'"* *"Oh? And how did you answer, Diss? Light? The sun? Air? The truth behind the workings of all things? A faith pursued through a lifetime of struggle?"* *"My answer was that it is merely a mask. Those outside the mask cannot see the real you, while behind its name, you can do whatever you please."* *"Diss, that elder of the Temple of Order must have been truly merciful. Otherwise, I can't imagine a second reason why you were allowed to walk away alive."* ... From the driver's seat, Alfred spoke up: "Sir, Young Master, we've arrived. They're waiting for us right up there." Ahead stood the Glorious Hotel of Rojia City. The gathering was on the thirteenth floor. Karen stepped out of the car and gave his neck a gentle stretch. Just then, a group of youths came singing and dancing across the street. The young man leading them wore a red jacket and hauled a large boombox on his shoulder, which was currently blaring fast-paced, rhythmic music. In this era, such scenes were fairly common. Hoist a boombox, and you would instantly attract a crowd of followers, singing and dancing together to burn off excess youthful energy. Noticing Karen's gaze, Alfred took the initiative to step forward and said to the youth in the leather jacket, "Sell it to me." "Hey, buddy, are you crazy? This is my faith! Faith! Faith, you hear? How dare you insult my faith with your filthy cash! Beat it before I plant my canvas sneaker right in your ass!" Alfred pulled a stack of lubi from his pocket and pressed it into the youth's hand. "Three thousand lubi." A brand-new model in the shops cost only fifteen hundred lubi, and this was an older unit. Even plastered with decals and scrawled with graffiti, it unfortunately hadn't appreciated in value. "Hey, buddy, I've de-de-de-decided to entrust my faith to you! Treat it well!" Snatching the lubi, the youth shouted to his friends behind him, "Destination: the bar! Let's move!" Having traded their faith for alcohol, the youths cheered in unison. Alfred walked back, hoisting the boombox on his shoulder. "Young Master, I believe you might need this." Karen shook his head. *Hm? Did I misread him?* Karen corrected him: "No. The night needs it." "You're quite right, Young Master." Alfred's fingers slid across the radio's buttons, then he brought his other fist to his lips. Shortly after, the boombox began playing guitar chords—low yet brisk, like a folk accompaniment. When a great being required music, one simply played the track instead of foolishly asking, *What song would you like?* Alfred began swaying his body in small motions, breaking the awkward atmosphere. In his eyes, addressing Diss as "Sir" was simply because he was the young master's grandfather. He respected Diss, but didn't necessarily fear him. The only person who truly mattered to him was the young man before him, upon whom he had staked his future. Karen raised his hands slightly as well, his body swaying along to the rhythm. In his past life, he had disliked dance halls and noise, so he didn't actually know how to dance. But then again, among the men and women visiting the Crown Ballroom in Rojia City, how many went with the genuine intention of practicing their footwork? Standing behind them, Diss watched Alfred and his grandson sway with restrained rhythm as they walked to the beat. Purr, who had returned to Diss's shoulder so as not to disturb Karen, watched the scene and remarked, "Ah, youth." Then it teased, "Are you envious, Diss?" Diss replied, "Constantly envying the youth of others when you're old only means your own youth was squandered—much like a free soul forever trapped inside the body of a cat." "..." Purr fell silent. Entering the hotel, they stepped into the elevator. Under Alfred's pleasant gaze, the bodyguards on the thirteenth floor voluntarily filed into the elevator, swaying to the beat as they pressed the button for the underground parking garage. Afterward, the three arrived outside the private suite. Alfred paused the music, for lovely piano notes were drifting from inside, currently swelling toward the piece's climax. "I know this tune," Alfred noted. "News from Wien reported that Delice composed it herself—'Partners of Nature.'" "It's quite pleasant," Karen commented. The lively rhythm readily painted an image of dancing through a forest alongside green sprites. Alfred chimed in, "Indeed. Which is why, generally speaking, people who actually get things done aren't suited to being great artists—a person's energy is finite, after all." "Very true." "Young Master, shall I push the door open for you now?" "No, wait a moment. Let the piece finish. It's only respectful to the music." "Yes, Young Master. My apologies." ... Inside the massive suite, Delice's fingers drifted effortlessly across the keys, clear notes reverberating throughout the floor. Slightly tipsy, veteran councilor Mr. Haggett leaned back in his chair, his gaze upon Delice growing increasingly brazen. Several years ago, he had been exposed for committing vile acts against young girls, but had used his influence to settle the matter. The sway of an entrenched councilor like him in Rojia City was never to be underestimated. Mr. Oca swirled his wineglass, lost in self-satisfaction. Mr. Ford chuckled to himself, thoroughly intoxicated, muttering incessantly: "Hello, please call me Ford." "No, call me Mr. Mayor." "Or perhaps you may call me Mayor, sir, heheh." In the corner, wrapped in a red robe, Alotta sat watching Mr. Haggett, his eyes flitting toward the veteran councilor from time to time. Before the banquet began, Haggett had asked Delice whether she would accept a private invitation to dine at his residence the day after tomorrow. Alotta was debating whether to arrange a very natural passing for the old councilor on that day. However, he still harbored doubts. The headquarters of the Church of Order lay in Wien, and Ruilan, separated from Wien by a mere sea, naturally possessed a complete Church of Order hierarchy. Upon first arriving in Rojia, he had dispatched a formal calling card to the Church of Order—a religious courtesy signaling, *I've arrived and would like to offer tea, out of respect.* In truth, the Church of Order had always maintained a low profile. Their numbers were never vast, to the point that many who dabbled in religious studies were barely aware the Church of Order existed. Yet no one in religious circles, nor the aberrant demons hidden within human society, dared underestimate this mysterious faith in the slightest. Even so, his calling card had vanished like a stone cast into the sea, met with no response whatsoever. That was only normal. Though Inquisitors of the Church of Order commanded an immense backing, they enjoyed tremendous latitude—which was to say, they were exceedingly indolent. Based on his experience traveling through numerous countries and cities, as long as no major catastrophe arose, they were usually content to turn a blind eye to petty affairs. Furthermore, beneath the Light of Order was often where filth gathered easiest. Consequently, the Church of Order hierarchy had long been a target for various faiths and factions seeking alliance or encroachment. It was terrifying, yet decayed. It was powerful, yet foul. So long as you showed it deference, it would grant you convenience. Such was the Church of Order in Alotta's eyes. It was for that reason Alotta had agreed to Mr. Oca's request. After all, it was merely the death of an impoverished family; even if he hadn't killed them, they would have faded away eventually amid those filthy, ditch-lined streets. He had simply acted on behalf of Nature to bestow purification upon them. Delice's performance reached its final measures. Outside the door, Alfred was counting the beats in his head. *Ding...* As the final key was released, Delice stood and curtsied to the three men at the table. *Creak...* At that moment, the suite door swung open. Diss walked forward and spoke: "You stand accused of violating Order by directing an aberrant demon to act on your behalf. In accordance with the Church of Order's *Code of Order*, you are now subject to questioning." "What is this rubbish?" Councilor Haggett bellowed, jumping to his feet and glaring at Diss. "Which precinct sent you blind fools in here to disturb us..." Mr. Ford raised his glass, shouting with drunken, glazed eyes, "Call me Mayor, sir, and I'll buy you a drink!" Mr. Oca, on the other hand, instantly raised both hands and shouted, "I submit willingly to the investigation of the great Church of Order! I will cooperate unconditionally with everything!" His true patron was a duke in Wien who held a high post in the government's commerce department, commanding enormous power. Once, at a banquet, a pale-faced young man had stood beside the duke. That young man had asked Oca, *"Do you possess faith?"* Oca had answered with a touch of smugness that his loyalty belonged solely to the duke, though he did keep many friends in various churches who occasionally proved helpful. The young man had then asked, *"Do you know of the Church of Order?"* Oca had replied, *"I've heard a little. The Church of Order is like the police department of the religious world. But officers are human too; they can make friends, and they need friends."* *"You're not wrong,"* the young man had said. *"However, allow me to offer a warning: just as when real police level their firearms at you, when members of the Church of Order invoke the Code of Order to question you, your best response... is to raise your hands."* *"Is it... truly that severe?"* *"When they recite 'in accordance with the Code of Order,' it's as if real police were working a case with reporters holding cameras beside them—and behind them stands the God of Order."* Thus, Mr. Oca had his hands raised. "Proud power of Nature, protect your faithful servant; spare us the torment of purgatory and grant us the fragrance of nature." Chanting softly, Alotta moved toward Delice and seized her hand. The red robe around him expanded instantly, engulfing Delice within its folds, before he hurled himself straight through the suite's floor-to-ceiling window. *Crash!* Glass shattered. The two plunged from the high-rise. Cold air swept through the shattered frame, sending a shiver through everyone in the room. Still holding his hands up, Mr. Oca felt a jolt of terror. *It's really that serious?!* Just then, Mr. Oca noticed the young man who had promised to deliver fried spring rolls to him earlier that day stepping up beside the elderly man. The youth declared, "The aberrant demon has chosen to resist arrest, taking the poor environmental advocate Delice hostage." Walking toward the shattered window, Diss stated, "Pursuant to the *Code of Order*, Chapter Four, Section Five: adopting a posture of resisting arrest during questioning shall increase the severity of the offense by one degree." Then Diss leaped out as well. Watching his grandfather jump straight down from the thirteenth floor, Karen's eyelid twitched involuntarily. Though he knew Diss would come to no harm, emotionally he still felt an elderly man shouldn't engage in such hazardous stunts. "Young Master, you needn't worry about the master," Alfred said with a smile. "The master is formidable. Even I can't defeat him." Karen nodded, then turned toward Mr. Oca at the dining table. "Mr. Oca, as you requested, I've come to deliver your fried spring rolls." Alfred bowed at once. "My deepest apologies, Young Master. I forgot to bring the spring rolls. Please punish me." "Such careless work—wouldn't that disappoint our dear Mr. Oca? It tarnishes the Inmerlais name." "Yes, Young Master. However, you could prepare them fresh on the spot. Spring rolls made that way will be much fresher, and I am certain Mr. Oca will be thoroughly satisfied." Karen looked troubled. "But there are no wrappers." Alfred promptly offered, "Veteran Councilor Mr. Haggett has exceptionally thick skin. We can borrow his." "There's no filling, though. I prefer a vegetarian spring roll." "Mayoral candidate Mr. Ford's head is packed full of greens. We can borrow that." "And there's no oil. How can we fry them?" "Mr. Oca has plenty of grease on him. Fine cuisine should never be denied, and I am certain Mr. Oca would be more than willing to lend us some." Karen nodded. "Splendid. We have everything after all. Alfred." "Here, sir." "Prep the ingredients."