Karen had never underestimated the bishop before him. After all, it had taken this man's family three generations to completely clear the cage and bring in their own birds, taking over the Church of Pamires entirely.
The reason Old Saman had chosen suicide was that he had been driven to utter despair by this very state of affairs.
Whenever Karen faced this bishop, he felt tremendous pressure, though not much panic.
The main reason was that although Bishop Bern oozed black filth from his flesh to his soul, he had always held the faith of Order above his own head, refusing to let it be tarnished in the slightest.
He was terrifying, yes, but as long as you truly stood on the side of the Church of Order, he wouldn't bite you.
"So, were you testing me earlier, My Lord?"
"No, not at all." Bishop Bern shook his head. "You gave me quite a bit of fresh inspiration. For instance, that remark about the assassin being a perfectionist. Heh, that is very good news."
"Why?"
"Because perfectionists always meet miserable ends. Otherwise, it wouldn't match the aesthetic their sort strives for."
"Is that so?"
Bishop Bern rested a hand on Karen's shoulder, leaning in close, and whispered, "Deep down, everyone has a streak of perfectionism, but reality forces us to compromise most of the time. If one stubbornly refuses to compromise, that is simply a disregard for reality."
Karen hesitated for a moment before asking, "Still, it's possible the assassin brought the mask in from the outside. He wouldn't necessarily have needed someone in the Yorktown region to craft it."
Bishop Bern seemed somewhat surprised by the question. Looking at Karen, he asked, "Do you truly not know?"
"Is there something I should know?"
"To my knowledge, masks fall into two main categories—well, in fact, most magical artifacts can be divided into these two categories: permanent and single-use consumables.
"When it comes to masks, crafting one that lasts permanently is exceptionally difficult, and it usually requires a specific raw material: the facial skin of the person being imitated.
"Single-use masks don't require that. The drawback—and I am referring to high-grade disposable ones—is that once crafted, they can only be stored in a special preservation solution. Once removed from the liquid, they immediately begin to spoil. It might take half a day, at most a single day.
"Just like a sliced apple left on a coffee table; after a few hours, it will start to brown.
"That is why I concluded the assassin found an artisan in the Yorktown region to make the mask."
"Then are you familiar with all the craftsmen in the Yorktown region capable of making such masks?"
"The way you ask that sounds as though you're certain I won't dig too deeply into you over this."
"Your subordinate is merely concerned."
"I suspect that the craftsman you know will, in all likelihood, be seized by my men as well. To get results as quickly as possible, I will order severe torture."
Compared to the Whip of Order, which had only just begun to revive here, the underground power Bishop Bern commanded was likely the true underworld of the York City Region. Perhaps even far more than that; his true identity was definitely not just a bishop ranking at the very bottom of the regional hierarchy.
At that moment, Bishop Bern pulled a sheet of black, red-bordered spell paper from his sleeve and handed it to Karen.
"Write the name of the one you know. I'll have my people interrogate him last. You'd better pray someone confesses before then."
Karen took the spell paper, produced a fountain pen he carried with him, and without hesitation wrote down "Lemar."
Just as Bishop Bern had said, Karen could only pray this particular item wasn't Lemar's handiwork. Otherwise, Karen wouldn't be able to protect them either. This incident was grave—so grave that even if someone had acted unwittingly, they would still suffer severe punishment from Order!
Bishop Bern took it back, glanced at it with a faint smile tugging at his lips, stamped it with his seal, folded the paper, and released the black crow.
"I have seen plenty of clever people, but at your age, few possess composure like yours. You seem quite adept at stroking a tiger's whiskers. Or could it be that in your eyes, I'm not a tiger, but just a little kitten?"
"My Lord, my palms are still soaked with sweat."
"Heh heh."
"Thank you, My Lord."
"Think nothing of it. We're on the same side, after all; when handling business, one provides whatever convenience one can. Remember, this is the second favor you owe me."
"The second?"
"The first is that I won't investigate the exact time of Mr. Pavaro's death." Bishop Bern chuckled. "Back when I received the dossier and learned Pavaro's body had been cremated, I already considered this angle. A corpse hidden from sight—was it because it had no face left?"
Karen pressed his lips together.
"Two favors. Remember, debts must be repaid."
"I will remember, My Lord."
"Very good. And remember one more thing: I never rely on the integrity of those who borrow money from me. I only rely on the fact that they dare not fail to repay me."
"Understood. However, I have one more request."
"Speak."
"I would like Leon to undergo convalescence, and I hope he can be excused from the subsequent investigation."
Leon was already in a daze. If he learned that the assassin had carried out the killings wearing his face—that his family members had seen his visage in their dying moments—Karen worried he would completely break down.
"I hold a different view. My principle for utilizing young masters from prominent families is that while they possess excellent personal aptitudes, their character must be tempered.
"This is a fine opportunity. You might worry he won't be able to hold up and will break down entirely, but frankly, it doesn't matter. If he's ruined, so be it.
"Besides, it isn't as if his grandfather is dying this very second—Department Head Bernie is in there with him, isn't he?"
"He is a member of my squad. I believe I need to take responsibility for him."
Bishop Bern looked at Karen and said in a low voice, "You will understand in the future: the more power you hold in your hands, the less mercy you will have."
"Perhaps I have not yet matured to that point."
"No, you simply look down on my methods. You are a perfectionist as well."
"My Lord..."
"Don't make excuses. Only a perfectionist can resonate with another perfectionist."
Right at that moment, an unusual surge of power rippled through the air. It was a transmission—not carried by a black crow, but broadcast via spiritual force, grandly and openly announcing to every member of the Church of Order present exactly who had arrived.
Even the regional Head Bishop did not possess such pageantry.
Bishop Bern remarked, "It should be the Whip-Wielder."
Foden had arrived?
"What happened here has already alarmed the upper echelons of the church. I imagine the High Priest has issued instructions regarding this matter as well."
"My Lord, do you think the higher-ups will take action?"
"First, let me ask you: do you think this was done by someone inside our church? Excluding myself, that is."
"No."
"Why? A Head Bishop certainly has no shortage of political enemies."
"My Lord, on Fire Island, I witnessed the passing of Lord Theisen."
"Oh, it seems you understand. Yes, exactly. If internal conflicts were resolved in this manner, it would break the rules for everyone. Thus, we can be almost certain this is an act of external provocation directed against our church.
"Therefore, until this affair is thoroughly investigated, the higher-ups will not act. Otherwise, they might fall right into the rhythm designed by the enemy.
"The church will certainly vent its fury over this, but not haphazardly.
"Very well, let us go greet the Whip-Wielder."
Bishop Bern headed downstairs, Karen following close behind. As the two stepped out of the entryway, they saw Foden walking into the garden. Flanking both sides of the garden, everyone had already knelt in prostration, including Philomena and Leon.
Behind Foden followed a cadre of people, their expressions chilling and their gazes sharp. On each of them, Karen could sense an aura similar to Bishop Bern's.
Beside Foden were two women. Karen recognized one of them: Marlene, the Whip-Wielder's assistant, whose position was similar to Alfred's at Karen's side, and who was also tasked with tending the lovely ants the Whip-Wielder newly collected.
The other woman wore a dress of alternating black and white, her hair draped over her shoulders. Her skin was remarkably fair, but she stood tall—nearly two meters, it seemed.
She was not bulky in the slightest, yet possessed distinct, dramatic curves; with long legs and a narrow waist accentuating a voluptuous bust and hips, she gave off an immense sense of oppression.
Karen did not recognize this woman, but as she approached, he felt a bone-chilling cold—not a spiritual metaphor, but a visceral physical sensation.
Her gaze seemed to linger deliberately on Karen. A curious glimmer rippled through her eyes, and an uncanny smile played across her lips.
On the whole, however, the Whip-Wielder had likely come in great haste; his entourage was not vast, and it even seemed as though insufficient security had been deployed.
Bern knelt to pay respects to the Whip-Wielder, and Karen followed suit, dropping onto one knee.
The Church of Order had never placed heavy emphasis on elaborate etiquette, preferring simplicity. Under normal circumstances, even before a figure of the Whip-Wielder's caliber, placing one's hands against one's chest in salute would have sufficed.
Yet these were hardly normal circumstances. On an occasion so solemn and official, failing to kneel would feel inappropriate even to oneself.
"Greetings, Lord Whip-Wielder," Bishop Bern said, lowering his head.
"Greetings, Lord Whip-Wielder," Karen said, his head held up, right fist pressed against his chest.
Foden didn't pause in the slightest. Walking straight between the two of them, he spoke as he passed: "Brief me on the scene."
"Understood, Lord Whip-Wielder."
Bishop Bern rose immediately and followed Foden inside, and the people Foden had brought with him filed in as well.
Karen slowly stood up. Rather than pushing forward to make another appearance before the dignitaries, he walked over to Leon.
"Leon, I advise you to take some time off."
"Captain, may I decline that recommendation?"
"You may."
"Phew... Thank you, Captain."
"The assassin likely used an identity mask. He entered your home looking like you, so what your family saw before they died was your face."
Leon: "..."
Since Leon had chosen his own path, Karen adhered to the tradition of the Inmeles family: secrets didn't keep overnight; whatever needed to be said was told at once.
Leon's expression began to twitch. He suddenly clutched his chest tightly, seized by physical spasms brought on by intense emotional shock.
In Karen's pocket was a pack of specialty cigarettes from the Church of Thunder. Alfred had produced them while barely conscious, right in front of Neo, who had been lying beside him, declaring that he had hidden them especially for the Young Master and that Neo mustn't know, or Neo would probably snatch them away.
However, just as Karen was about to pull out a cigarette to help Leon forcibly blank out his turmoil, a pale, slender arm reached over, fingers nearly as long as chopsticks tapping Leon right between his brows.
Instantly, a speck of white light appeared, sweeping across Leon's entire body.
Leon felt as though his soul and flesh had been dunked and rinsed in a pool of frigid water. A shudder ran through him, and he exhaled a puff of white mist.
Yet he truly had calmed down. With smoldering anger, he said, "That assassin... is utterly despicable!"
Karen turned to look at the tall woman who had appeared beside him unnoticed. Regardless of anything else, her method of "physical calming" was remarkably effective.
"Your family is dead, and your grandfather is gravely wounded. You should grieve, but save it for the funeral. Right now, you should keep your head clear."
Her voice was crisp and chilly.
Leon looked at her in surprise, but quickly saluted: "Yes, Milady."
"Hm? This one is interesting." The woman reached toward Philomena's face.
Philomena's gaze narrowed slightly, but she stood firm without moving.
The woman gave Philomena's cheek a gentle pinch, smiling. "You're quite cold too. I rather like that feeling."
Philomena gave no response.
Who on earth was this VIP? Shouldn't she have followed the Whip-Wielder into the villa to inspect the situation?
Then the woman looked down at Karen, who was closest to her. "I'm hungry. Can we get any food around here?"
Even if you wanted to attend a funerary feast, now is hardly the time.
"I will have someone prepare food for you at once."
Counting the time, Muri and the others should be arriving soon.
"Never mind, forget it. I wouldn't get full anyway, and if I'm seen, I might get scolded. Sigh." The woman let out a soft sigh. "The Whip-Wielder has a fury pent up inside right now. I have to be careful not to get whipped by him."
As if suddenly noticing something else, a broad smile spread across her face. She reached out once more, this time toward Karen.
Karen took half a step back.
Yet the woman showed no intention of stopping, pressing forward with her hand. By the look of it, if she couldn't touch him, she would keep following him all the way backward out of the courtyard.
Left with no choice, Karen could only stand still and let her place her hand on his cheek.
Unlike the way she had pinched Philomena's cheek, her palm lightly stroked Karen's face down to his jawline.
Back inside the Gates of Samsara, in Lord Dal's burrow, Karen had sampled drinks chilled with dark ice alongside him. Right now, the sensation of this woman touching him was just like having a block of dark ice pressed directly against his skin.
"Hey, little thing."
That form of address... was quite strange.
"Advanced, have you? Advancing isn't so strange, but how has your aura jumped straight to the peak of Adjudicator? Little thing, you truly are fascinating."
"Milady, have we met before?"
"We have. Of course we have. You've even ridden me."
Philomena blinked.
Even Leon, submerged in grief, felt his breath catch in utter bewilderment.
Karen's eyes went wide as he stared at the woman before him. Someone beside Foden, whom he had ridden...
"You are... Lady Augie?"
"Mhm, looks like you've finally remembered who I am."
She was that Frost Dragon beside Foden!
She could actually transform into a human... Aside from being unusually tall, she looked scarcely different from a normal person.
The phantom beast Compasini could transform into a human as well. Karen had also seen its true skeletal form after death in the sand pool—massive, to be sure, but nothing compared to a Frost Dragon.
Furthermore, Compasini's human form had still retained its tusks, whereas this woman had assumed an entirely human shape.
Earlier, he had wondered whether the Whip-Wielder had come in such haste that he hadn't brought enough security. Now it turned out he had overthought things. When accompanied by a Frost Dragon, what other security could one possibly need?
If she truly flew into a rage, destroying Yorktown would be child's play unless someone extraordinarily powerful intervened.
For once this dragon revealed her true form and ran amok, she could unleash a natural calamity!
"The aura on you is quite intriguing. To outside perception, you seem like an ordinary mortal, but be careful: fluctuations in your vitality can still be sensed by certain special beings. Like me, for instance."
Augie brought a finger to her mouth and sucked on it.
"Thank you for the warning, Milady."
"I heard it was done by people from the Church of the Desert?" Augie suddenly asked.
"Milady, if you are interested in this matter, you can go inside right now to listen to Bishop Bern's case briefing."
"No, I won't. I don't have the brains for it." Augie tapped her forehead lightly. "Compared to my colossal body, my brain takes up a tiny proportion.
"I'm actually very silly, you know."
...
Pavaro Funeral Parlor.
Pick and Dincom were doing the daily cleaning. Although the funeral parlor had never had much business, it was, after all, the front entrance to their home, so it had to be kept clean and tidy.
In the master bedroom of the rear courtyard, Purr was lying on her side in bed, turning the pages of a romance novel, reading with great relish.
Kevin sprawled on the floor, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles resting on his canine snout, flipping through a notebook left behind by Mr. Hoffen. It wasn't a notebook on formation arrays, but a record of observations on the various major cults and churches—an encyclopedia of the religious world.
Clutching a fountain pen in his paw, Kevin would occasionally make corrections to sections of the notes involving mythological accounts.
Most likely, even if Mr. Hoffen came back from the dead and saw this scene, he wouldn't be angry.
Suddenly,
Kevin jerked his head up. The spectacles slipped from his snout, the pen tumbled from his paw, and his tail shot straight up like a flagpole!
"Stupid dog, what is it?"
"Woof!"
At the entrance of the funeral parlor, a figure holding an umbrella stepped inside. Under the eaves, he folded the umbrella and shook off the droplets of water to his side.
Pick and Dincom immediately set down the broom and mop in their hands, bowing respectfully:
"Young Master, you're back."
Chapter 567