"Whew..."
Blanche's face was drenched in sweat. She reached out to take the damp towel from Ashley to wipe herself, but just as her hand stretched out, Ashley was already using it to dab the sweat from their captain, who lay on the bed.
Yet she was the one who had just exhausted herself performing the treatment; the captain hadn't broken a sweat at all.
Blanche immediately reached over and pinched Ashley on the backside.
Ashley twisted away, slipping free of what she considered the "claws of jealousy." Continuing to dab Karen's brow, she sighed in tender distress, "Our poor captain... wounded so badly again."
Blanche said helplessly, "The captain's injuries are indeed serious, but they aren't critical. The first priest who treated him was extraordinarily skilled."
"Will the captain have scars?" Ashley asked.
"Not that you'll ever get to admire them anyway."
"Here, take the towel. Wipe yourself down," Ashley said, handing the towel to Blanche.
Blanche took it, leaned closer, and prepared to wipe down the captain's body.
Ashley teased, "That was for your own sweat, my friend."
"I can wipe my own sweat anytime."
Just then, the office door swung open. Neo walked in, yawning. Looking at Karen lying on the bed, he chuckled. "Now I'm feeling a bit slighted. Why is it that you always manage to lie down in greater comfort than me?"
Karen opened his eyes. Ashley and Blanche offered Neo a respectful salute and tactfully slipped out of the office.
Neo sat down beside Karen's bed and continued, "Once upon a time, I lay right here too, and Eliza sat right beside me."
Karen said helplessly, "I don't mind you tearing open your own emotional scars for fun—that's your freedom—but please don't project either of us into weird roles."
"Fine, fine. Looks like that little priest of yours patched you up well. With your enhanced physical constitution, your recovery should be fast."
"Yeah."
Neo lifted his priestly robe, revealing that the wound on his abdomen had already scabbed over.
"The church knows I carry the bloodline of a bloodthirsty aberrant demon, but I don't want them knowing my bloodline rank is advancing this quickly."
"Must have been hard on you, walking all that way while holding your own intestines."
"Hey, before stuffing them back in, I even found a spot to rinse them off with water."
"If you thought they were dirty, you could have sliced them off entirely. I'd have cooked you a dish with them."
"Sounds like it'd be delicious. For a guy like you to stomach that disgust and say such a thing means that dish holds a very special place in your heart."
"It does."
"Next time Richard gets seriously injured, then, I'll borrow some intestines from him. He heals fast anyway."
"Is he suspicious of you?" Karen finally conceded defeat and steered the conversation elsewhere.
"Yeah, of course he is. Though it's not narrowed down to just me or you."
"It's definitely you. I smoked cigars with the Whip-Wielder."
"Don't you know boasting about rubbing shoulders with top leadership is utterly tasteless?"
"I'm merely stating the fact that his suspicion is almost certainly limited to you. So in the future, don't act so unhinged."
"What's there to be afraid of? Let him suspect me. Is clearing one's name that hard? Once this business blows over, invite Bernie out for a midnight snack, and I'll disguise myself as a Light remnant to attack the food stall, completely clearing you of suspicion. Then I'll invite Bernie for coffee, and you can stroll by the café disguised as a Light remnant to clear me. In their wildest dreams, they'd never suspect that two Light remnants work right across the hall from each other. We can wash each other clean."
Karen thought Neo's idea sounded naive... but in all likelihood, it would actually work.
After all, this wasn't pure mimicry. Neo's "face" was originally a mask; even if he layered another mask on top, his build and aura could be transferred and inherited.
Karen said, "I feel like there are things we don't know."
"Naturally. Bernie rushed back to the Dinge Region overnight. Why would higher-ups lay out their schemes to us directly? Our only freedom is to crawl forward step by step. Just focus on your own tasks—like this afternoon."
"The more I feel like a pawn, the smoother I think this afternoon's trial will go."
"Fine by me. Trust your instincts, then. Your instincts are always accurate, aren't they?"
"Still, I don't particularly want to take part in this trial merely as a pawn."
Neo immediately held up a hand. "I know. You feel this trial holds special significance for you. I get it, I understand.
"As for me, I like reveling wildly in the shadows;
"As for you, you prefer smiling demurely beneath the sunlight."
"You're resorting to poetry now?"
"How does it sound?"
"Better than inverted sentences."
"Haha. All right, get some proper sleep. Give it your best this afternoon."
"Will do."
Neo stood up, then paused. "Right, the church's policy on dealing with Light remnants seems about to change. The specifics won't come out for a while. Forget it, we'll talk about it once the documents come down. No rush right now."
"Yeah."
Neo walked out of the office.
Karen closed his eyes and began to rest. Dawn had not yet broken, so in theory, he had plenty of time for a good sleep.
In practice... inside his own office, whether he sat behind his desk or lay in bed made no difference to the workflow.
***
*Drip... drip... drip...*
The familiar sound of dripping water—an eternal, unchanging prelude, like the stereotypical hypnotist swinging a pocket watch before your eyes and telling you to stare. Throw in an "at this moment you feel very tired," and every cliché would be complete.
Yet certain prologues were unavoidable. When your subconscious was willing to accept its appearance, even a shrill, hysterical scream at the opening would feel completely natural.
He opened his eyes.
This was a dream.
The [Scythe of War] stood before him, canted at a slight angle. Even after seeing it countless times, it still gave him the illusion that the moment it fell, it would cleave him in two. His mind had already simulated the sensation of flesh and bone shearing apart.
He looked down. Before him still lay that abyssal pool.
*Drip... drip...*
No water droplets fell, yet ripples continued to spread rhythmically from the center of the pool.
Gradually, a face appeared below. What Karen saw was his own face.
He and "himself" gazed at each other across the surface of the water.
After a moment, the reflection began to shift, slowly taking on the likeness of Mr. Pavaro.
He stared at Karen with cold detachment. Then, his face transitioned from two dimensions into three dimensions from within the pool. He floated up, rose to his feet, and stood beside the [Scythe of War], leaning forward slightly alongside the weapon.
The silent exchange of gazes dragged on. Karen did not speak, nor did Mr. Pavaro.
This dream felt utterly bizarre. Karen had no idea what it was trying to express, nor did he understand what emotion his mind was trying to vent by conjuring such a scene.
It felt like trying to answer reading-comprehension questions on an essay he had written himself, yet remaining utterly baffled.
Just then, the [Scythe of War] began to "sway." It hadn't actually moved, but it seemed to give him advance warning that it was about to.
Sure enough, in the next instant, the [Scythe of War] swept down toward Mr. Pavaro.
Mr. Pavaro's face was sliced off, and the severed face flew straight toward Karen.
Karen did not resist, letting the face adhere to his own.
Using the ring to wear Mr. Pavaro's face had long since become second nature to him.
When the overlap settled, Karen looked forward, only to find Mr. Pavaro already kneeling there, hands cupped upward in an offering posture.
This scene was identical to Mr. Pavaro's final posture before he perished entirely, after Karen had "awakened" him.
That night, emerging from beneath Qihe's sausage factory into the woods, Mr. Pavaro had torn off his own facial skin with his own hands and presented it to Karen. It contained his approval of Karen's willingness to free those poor girls, as well as his apology for entrusting the care of his wife and daughter to Karen.
*Gurgle... gurgle... gurgle...*
The sound of bubbles rose from beneath the abyss.
Karen had a premonition: the terrifying consciousness that had once shouted from below seemed eager to send another message through the imprint of the [Scythe of War].
It was time to wake up.
He had to attend the trial this afternoon, and his body had only just been patched up. He couldn't afford to meddle with such things right now.
Karen opened his eyes.
Daylight had broken.
He turned to check the time: one o'clock in the afternoon. A little over an hour remained until the trial began.
"It must be because of the trial that I dreamed of Mr. Pavaro. But because of the imprint of the [Scythe of War], what should have been a normal dream got dragged into this twisted aesthetic."
Karen looked at the [Scythe of War] imprint on the back of his hand, placed there by Mavaglio. Only now did he understand that besides granting him the enhancement of the divine artifact [Scythe of War] when summoning the [Black Prison Castle], its side effects weren't limited to occasional nightmares;
Its presence practically distorted his dreams.
To exaggerate slightly: if he had an erotic dream, the setting probably wouldn't be a warm, cozy bed, but rather the edge of a dark pool with the [Scythe of War] "watching"—which would ruin the mood even more than having a camera pointed at him.
Or if he had an innocent dream, like eating cotton candy, lollipops, or candied hawthorn skewers, the [Scythe of War] and that abyssal backdrop would still force their way in.
Then again, Muri had the same imprint on his hand, yet he didn't seem to suffer from this problem.
Was it his own unique nature that made him overly sensitive?
Karen shook his head. When the opportunity arose, he would have to find a way to deal with this. He didn't want anything on his body capable of exerting subjective control or influence over him.
His psychological cravings were an exception, equivalent to a chronic illness he had contracted.
This, however, stemmed entirely from his link to the imprint of the [Scythe of War]. Yet he had no clue how to resolve it.
Sever the connection?
Going to Mavaglio could accomplish that, but Karen was reluctant, because severing it would render the [Black Prison Castle] useless.
Align it with Order?
Subject an intact divine artifact under the custody of the Church of Order to his own personal Order alignment... Was he insane?
*Sigh.*
With a sigh, Karen walked into the washroom. With a flick of his intent, the water temperature and flow rate adjusted to perfection.
The mild frustration from having his dream warped vanished in an instant. Benefiting at someone else's expense remained one of humanity's most primal sources of joy.
"Young Master," Alfred's voice called from outside. "I've brought you a new clerical robe."
"All right, leave it there."
After freshening up and changing into the new robe, Karen stepped into the office.
The robe was indeed brand-new. He still remembered the first time he went to the point coupon shop to purchase a clerical robe, circling and checking items on that price list, fretting over costs and configurations, and how pleased he had been just borrowing one of Richard's spare new robes while showering at Richard's house.
Now, he could practically put on a brand-new robe for every formal occasion he attended.
This wasn't Karen being deliberately extravagant. Although clerical robes generally possessed self-cleaning properties and were far more durable than ordinary clothes, they weren't suits of armor. Even armor developed irreparable dents in combat, let alone robes.
Essentially, after a single fight, a robe was ruined and had to be replaced.
"Alfred."
"Young Master."
"Next time you visit the coupon shop, see about buying robes in bulk. Use squad funds to have them tailored to everyone's measurements. That should make it easier to bargain for a discount."
"Young Master, Madame Tangli has actually been sending robes to you all along."
"Hm?"
"At first, I assumed Richard was sending them, so I didn't mention it. Only recently did I ask probing questions and discover it wasn't him. That leaves only your grandmother."
"I see."
Just then, Vic knocked and entered. "Captain, we're all ready."
"Good. Let's head out."
The trial hall was located in this very building, down on the third basement level.
Only the architects of the Whip of Order's facilities seemed fond of such aesthetics, going out of their way to make everything look as grim and gloomy as possible.
Yet no matter how meticulous the design, it could not withstand the sandpaper of time.
Although it had been deliberately cleaned, the courtroom still carried a musty, decayed air. That wasn't something a fresh coat of paint could fix; it required living human presence.
After all, no hearing had been held here in many years.
This trial carried immense significance, which was why Bernie had stated the previous night that the trial and last night's events were two separate matters that shouldn't be conflated.
In truth, convening this trial at the Whip of Order Headquarters was already a monumental breakthrough.
Karen led Vic and Alfred into the courtroom. A considerable number of people were already seated. While not overflowing, aside from a large contingent of church reporters, everyone present was a figure of standing.
From the moment Karen stepped through the doors, the clicking of the reporters' spell cameras never ceased.
While Karen didn't feel nervous or stage-frightened, facing the lenses naturally made his conduct somewhat more deliberate.
From walking to his seat, to sitting down, to accepting the water cup from Alfred, to looking down at the briefing documents Vic handed over, to listening to Vic's explanations—which Vic himself clearly felt were redundant nonsense—and finally nodding in satisfaction...
Every small motion carried a hint of calculated performance.
In the public gallery, reporters crowded against the railings to photograph Karen from a closer angle.
As the world's foremost church, every move by the Church of Order drew intense scrutiny from the entire religious sphere. What was more, this internal power struggle between the Whip of Order and the regional administrative office was widely analyzed by outsiders as a landmark event signaling factional fractures within the Church of Order, one that might trigger chain reactions. And its focal point was right here.
"A clever arrangement. Did the Whip of Order deliberately send the most handsome person in their department to attend the trial?"
"His name is Karen, a rising star in the Church of Order recently."
"Oh? What about his family background?"
"Supposedly an orphan."
"Do you believe that?"
"Many of the Church of Order's recent High Priests came from common backgrounds."
"Oh, true enough."
The reporters whispered among themselves. Behind them, the heads of various missionary outposts and offices from other churches in the York City Region also chatted quietly according to their personal affiliations, though they all erected small sound-isolation arrays while speaking—a form of open whispering.
Ashley, Blanche, Richard, and Philomena entered as well, finding seats together.
Karen glanced toward them and noticed that the wounds on Philomena's chin and neck were covered in a layer of white flocculent material. Richard had likely used "Jerry's precious silkworm silk" to treat her injuries.
Moreover, when taking their seats in a row, Richard, who had been the first to step into the aisle, shifted to the second-to-last seat, leaving the outermost spot for Philomena.
Sometimes Karen genuinely felt that his uncle's social anxiety might not be genetic after all—he had simply transferred all of his social competence to his son.
At that moment, the Presiding Judge entered with the inquisitors.
Karen had initially assumed the Presiding Judge would be Harry, but it wasn't; it was an unfamiliar woman.
Vic whispered, "Gaspol, from the Whip of Order Headquarters in the Dinge Region. Upper-middle rank. Unlike other regions, the Whip of Order operates normally there, so she has extensive experience."
"Understood," Karen acknowledged softly.
In the VIP gallery, York City Region's Chief Bishop Wolflen stepped out, followed by Dolfo and another bishop.
Everyone present stood and saluted Wolflen:
"Greetings, Chief Bishop."
"Greetings, Chief Bishop."
Presiding Judge Gaspol did the same.
Wolflen returned the gesture toward Gaspol, and the two bishops behind him followed suit:
"Greetings, Presiding Judge."
"Greetings, Presiding Judge."
Wolflen and his companions then took their seats. Bishop Dolfo fixed his gaze squarely on Karen without the slightest attempt to hide it.
Karen ignored Bishop Dolfo's near-provocative stare, merely loosening the collar of his clerical robe slightly. As more people entered, the air in the room seemed to grow increasingly stale.
Years of neglect had definitely caused the air-circulation arrays to malfunction. Compounded by being three levels underground—and a fairly deep basement level at that—the air naturally stagnated.
*If I'd known, I would have brought a couple of potted plants from my office to set up here.*
The last to appear was naturally the true protagonist of today's proceedings.
Vicolai was escorted in, his shackles still firmly in place, and made to stand inside a pre-installed iron cage.
In truth, Karen felt this arrangement was somewhat superfluous. Even if all restraints on Vicolai were removed, there was nothing to worry about, because his evenly matched rival, Richard, was sitting right here.
Finally, Gaspol raised her fingertips, and a black leather whip rose from her desk.
How could a Whip of Order tribunal have the presiding judge rap a gavel? Tradition dictated going straight to the whip.
*Crack! Crack! Crack!*
Three successive cracks of the whip snapped through the room. Silence fell instantly over the entire hall, and the air seemed to freshen considerably as well—leaving Karen half-hoping the presiding judge would lash the whip every so often just to let everyone breathe.
"The trial begins."
Chapter 514