Brazen

Alfred clenched his hands slightly and then slowly relaxed them. Autumn had already set in, carrying a chill in the air, yet traces of sweat still slicked his palms. For a very long time in the past, Alfred had been a television host in Rojia. He had been poised, he had been elegant, and his exquisite burgundy suit had made him a dashing phantom roaming the night streets. Originally, he could have continued living like that—like an aristocrat dwelling in the shadows, living lavishly, occasionally indulging in a touch of melancholic languor whenever the mood struck. Yet all of that had changed completely once he settled on a single goal: to be immortalized on a mural! To that end, he had studied painting techniques while analyzing and admiring the murals of various churches to hone his compositional skills. Right now, he was forcibly restraining an excitement and emotional swell so intense it bordered on overwhelming. Though his gaze remained calm, he kept it lowered to suppress the mist of tears that threatened to well up at the corners of his eyes at any moment. In the future, when he rendered today's scene in the form of a mural, he would definitely add an inscription beneath it: *This was the first time the Young Master (the Great Existence) expressed his dissatisfaction and fury through direct confrontation in public. Its significance went beyond a standoff on the verge of erupting into violence; it was the charge sounded by a rising power against the established order, ushering in the grand prelude of the new order supplanting the old!* What a pity there was no piano nearby. If there had been, Alfred would certainly have touched the keys to play the most fitting background accompaniment, matching a resounding rhythm to the chant of "My Lord's Mercy." It was a regret, but also a direction for future improvement. Alfred firmly believed that after this first occurrence, similar scenes would surely follow in abundance. This inevitably brought that night on Mink Street back to his mind—when Master Diss had taken the Young Master to confront an offender. On the street dimly lit by lampposts, Alfred had carried a peanut-tube radio on his shoulder, swaying gently to the music alongside the Young Master. What a nostalgic picture that was. That was also what Alfred considered in his heart to be the "Supreme Mural." It was neither sacred nor noble, yet it revealed the most precious truth: the easy, intimate rapport between him and the Young Master. Ah, music! That damn music! Composing himself, Alfred drew a deep breath and looked straight ahead. In the future, whenever he recruited believers for the Young Master, proficiency with a musical instrument would definitely have to be a bonus criterion. Unlike Alfred's elaborate internal drama, Karen felt rather calm at the moment—like someone watching a mystery thriller after being spoiled, finding it difficult to become fully immersed. Furthermore, there was another crucial factor that could not be ignored: both the garrison knights arrayed on the ground and those soaring through the sky were merely lent to him by Bishop Bern. They did not belong to him. He was like an OEM contractor slapping his own label on jars of bean paste; no matter how much others praised the flavor of the paste, he could hardly feel genuine joy deep down. When would he ever possess a force of Order knights of his own—one that truly belonged only to him? Still, Karen knew how difficult that was. Seeing how Neo had spent all his savings just to cobble together a VIP car, and how equipping the war machines for his own Black Prison Castle was still nowhere in sight, an individual or a small clique—no matter how skilled at embezzlement—would struggle to pull off such an extraordinary feat. The armor, accessories, array formations, forged weapons of all kinds, and personal cultivation of the garrison knights, along with the breeding, rearing, and replacement of their mounts, the barding on the horses, and even every single horseshoe—all embodied the crystallized ingenuity of countless systems and departments. The reason the Church of the Crypt was willing to become a vassal of Order had little to do with the ancient camaraderie between the God of Order and the Seven Deities of the Crypt anymore; it was simply that the Church of the Crypt... couldn't afford to sustain itself. If nothing else, had Lord Augie not had the backing of the Whip-Wielder and the steady supply of Church of Order resources, she wouldn't have developed properly at all, let alone attained her current tall, curvaceous stature. So from the perspective of a conspirator, stealthily laundering Church resources into one's own pocket just to assemble a car or remodel an office reeked of pettiness. A true conspirator ought to scheme how to use Church resources to expand their own power, completely skipping the intermediate step of circulating the wealth through their own hands. Take Bishop Bern: had he spent a single point-ticket out of pocket to maintain these garrison knights? Yet that hadn't stopped him from tossing Karen a medallion that made them obey his command and storm in, even if they were storming the headquarters building of the Whip of Order. *Hiss...* Karen suddenly had an epiphany: now *that* was true sophistication. A furious roar from the Regional Chief snapped everyone present out of their inner thoughts: "Are you attempting a rebellion?!" Karen tilted his head slightly. Faced with this situation, Regional Chief Harry had immediately slammed down a damning label. What could one say? You could privately mock the unsightly antics of leadership figures, but you couldn't truly underestimate the intelligence that allowed them to climb to such positions. Amid the chaotic, bewildered turn of events, Regional Chief Harry's first move was to hoist the banner of righteous authority, because he was convinced that the garrison knights wouldn't dare actually launch an attack against the Whip of Order. Otherwise, it would become the greatest joke in the history of the Church of Order. In the secular world, it would be equivalent to the Wien Empire's army charging into the imperial procuratorate—an act no different in nature from storming parliament itself. Even though Bishop Bern had said excitedly the previous night that seeing Karen order the garrison to actually attack would make him shiver with thrill... ...the reality was that Karen could not order an attack. In this conflict sparked by the trap sprung on him at the commendation ceremony, even if he lost, he would at most be removed from the Whip of Order and transferred to another department to start over. It would waste a tremendous amount of time and effort, making a fresh start even harder... ...but if he actually ordered an attack, everything would be past saving. From himself, to Bern, to Wolflen, and even nearly the entire upper echelon of the Yorktown Region, all would face a bloody purge from the Holy See! What was infinitely worse than sending assassins to murder a rival? Mobilizing an army directly to trample one's opponents. That was something even the late Lord Theisen had never dared to do. Therefore, what Karen needed to do now, under the premise that everyone knew an armed escalation wouldn't happen by accident, was to make them believe he *was* mad enough to do something that crazy; and thereby force Regional Chief Harry and Acting Head Bishop Dunk to yield, making those five bishops who had just been officially "released" obediently return to the "chicken coop." He had to act exaggerated; he had to act insane... Fortunately, Karen had a suitable point of reference—or rather, a role model—in his mind. Too bad that person was currently writing a book down in a cell and couldn't provide in-person guidance. All in all, this was truly difficult. After all, forcing someone accustomed to propriety to imitate a chaos-loving hedonist wasn't easy. Karen walked down the steps and arrived before Minister Bernie. Bernie's lips moved slightly, as if wanting to say something, yet he didn't know what to say. This was no longer the political game he was familiar with; he had never even imagined that in his lifetime, he would ever have to handle such a situation. Karen did not speak. Instead, he reached out, hooked his arm around Bernie's shoulder, and gripped the back of the minister's neck. Then he took half a step forward, bringing his face right beside the minister's. "I told you, it's not over. It's only just begun." "You... are truly incomprehensible..." "Mhm, yes. Sometimes I feel lost too, not knowing what I really need to do next." Then, Karen said something that baffled Bernie: "Everyone mocks Neo, yet everyone is Neo." "What... do you mean?" "It means..." *Pfft!* Bernie's body jerked. He looked down in disbelief, just in time to see a black feather slowly withdrawing from his abdomen. It vanished into the sleeve of Karen's clerical robe, but just a moment before, it had punched through him, leaving a piercing wound barely holding together by a layer of skin. Moreover, the aura of Order purification clung to the inside, inflicting further damage on his body. Karen took a step back and spread his arms. Bernie bent at the waist, both hands clutching his abdomen. Blood welled out profusely, dripping onto the ground. That pool of bright red stung the eyes of everyone looking over. Karen said in a low voice, "We were clearly on the right track. I was willing to work under you, helping you get things done, earning merits together, and rising through the ranks in your footsteps. So, I'm truly curious—why did you have to mess with me?" "Cough..." Bernie wheezed, continuing to clutch his wound as he said, "If I said... I don't know either... would you believe me?" "Does believing it or not even matter anymore?" Karen shrugged, a smile touching the corner of his lips. "I'm sorry, but during the commendation ceremony, the moment I realized you were setting me up, I wanted to stab you." "Heh... but I never thought... you'd actually stab me..." "I've always considered myself a kind-hearted person, but my dog always thought I held grudges, so he's always lived very cautiously in my home." "That dog of yours... sees things... very clearly..." "Indeed. I shouldn't have doubted its judgment and insight. Perhaps it does stand higher, so it gauges people more accurately." Bernie began healing himself. He was an exceptionally skilled priest to begin with, but Karen had ambushed him completely unexpectedly right in front of all these eyes, and the strike was imbued with a massive amount of purification power. Skilled at healing as he was, the pain caused his entire body to convulse. His back hunched and he pitched forward. Not collapsing wasn't his stubborn cling to dignity; he was simply numb, completely past caring about saving face. Yet Karen's next words, deliberately uttered with an amplification spell, forced Minister Bernie to pull himself together: "Ah, Minister, how could your old injury tear open again at a time like this? How can you treat your health so carelessly?" The sound was loud, echoing all around. Although most people hadn't seen Karen stab Minister Bernie due to viewing angles and Karen's covert execution... did anyone even need to see it?! Even so, Minister Bernie gritted his teeth and parted his lips. As he prepared to speak, his thoughtful subordinate even hovered the radiant ring of the amplification spell beside his mouth, like handing a microphone to a leader. Bernie froze for a moment and gave a soundless laugh. Then he spoke into it: "Yes, my old injury flared up. It always tears open again... What a headache!" This spectacle was steeped in dark farce. Everyone present, including the black-armored knights, knew Karen had stabbed him, yet Bernie had to publicly declare it was a relapse of an old wound. The reason was simple: aside from answering like this, Bernie had no other choice. Was he supposed to shout, "No! How dare you openly strike your superior, you apostate?!" Or, "Men, seize him and bring him to justice!"? Doing so would drive Karen completely into a corner. In past political struggles, forcing an opponent into a corner would bring the reserved superiority of a master chess player, basking in the art of political maneuvering. But Karen had troops! If you blocked off all his other paths, he would only have one road left to take. Right now, Bernie was merely awaiting demotion—and a demotion meant to keep a low profile at that. But if a bloody clash truly broke out between the garrison and the Whip of Order, then every senior priest present... would be facing the iron-blooded judgment of the Holy See! Under that kind of trial, exile would be an unrealistic luxury, because the Holy See had zero tolerance for such actions. Most importantly, although there were many people in the headquarters building, Bernie did not believe the Whip of Order personnel could withstand a charge from these well-trained, seamlessly coordinated knights. He wouldn't even need to worry about any subsequent trial—whether he could survive the next charge was already a massive question mark! Even the Whip of Order, which ranked in the third echelon of the Church's combat order and was considered relatively powerful among internal branches, appeared pale and feeble before an actual military force. Karen reached out, gently patted Minister Bernie's back, skirted past him, and walked alone toward the press platform up ahead. Perhaps because he had just stabbed Bernie, as Karen walked forward, the bishops and ministers no longer barked those tiresome, clichéd shouts like "Karen, how dare you!" or "Karen, impudent fool!" They were all respectable people, and the hallmark of respectable people was that once stripped of their mantle of decency, every one of them turned quite bashful. When Karen swept his gaze across the five bishops standing on the platform, all five tacitly turned their faces aside to avoid meeting his eyes, even though Karen had berated them for half a month straight at press conferences. Yet to everyone's surprise, the first person to step forward of his own accord was not Karen's highest direct superior, Regional Chief Harry, but Acting Head Bishop Dunk. He was an elderly man of graceful bearing. In fact, apart from his graying hair, his facial features and physique looked remarkably youthful... giving off the vibe of a silver-haired elven prince. No wonder he had become the choice to succeed Wolflen; in terms of appearance alone, he scored very high. He stopped in front of Karen, and Karen stopped as well. Taller than Karen, he looked down at him with a genial smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and said: "I've spent the past period on an academic exchange in the Dinge Region and only returned recently, so I haven't met you formally in the region. But the first time I saw your photograph in the newspaper, I took it to my wife and asked her: 'Look, doesn't he resemble me in my youth?'" This was originally just polite banter. When superiors told you that you resembled them in their youth, they usually considered it high praise; but Karen had truly heard such lines so often that calluses had practically grown over his ears. Only, what he heard most often—or what was conveyed through people's eyes—was: *You really look like your grandfather.* Especially his maternal grandmother; every time they met, everything from her gestures to her expressions seemed to constantly echo that sigh: *Looking at you is like looking at a young Diss.* Well, being told he resembled his grandfather didn't bother Karen at all; rather, he considered it an honor. After all, if one were to get technical, a young Diss was probably far more free and uninhibited than Karen was now. On the stone monument outside the temple gates, where others devoutly inscribed their names, his grandfather had cleaved the stele in two, forcibly turning the split into the dividing line for the later tradition of men carving on the left and women on the right. He had even heard from Purr and Old Hoffen that when Grandfather was young, he dared talk back even to temple elders, leaving them with no way to save face. Then look at himself: relying on borrowed knights just to bicker with mediocre hacks like regional ministers and bishops. *Sigh, each generation truly is worse than the last.* Right now, the only thing he could boast about over Grandfather was probably his official rank. Mhm, Office Director of the Whip of Order was much higher than Inquisitor. Dunk thought his mild opening words would elicit a relatively positive response from the young man, or at least defuse the tense, hair-trigger atmosphere. Instead, Karen returned his gaze with unmistakable contempt, followed by a reply whose literal meaning baffled him, yet whose emotion was crystal clear: "My Lord, do you have siblings? What number are you in the birth order?" Dunk felt that if he actually answered, he would look utterly foolish. So he brushed the question aside, bent down slightly, and asked: "Bern certainly has the guts to play rough. I've read your file; it says you're an orphan. So... could you be Bern's illegitimate son?" This was also a question to which any actual answer would make one look utterly foolish. Therefore, Karen chose not to answer. Instead, raising his hand, he swung a slap straight across the handsome old face leaning right in front of him! *Smack!* Crisp. Resounding. Even without an amplification spell, the sound carried far and wide. Acting Head Bishop Dunk stared blankly at Karen. The burning sting on his left cheek and the coppery sweetness trickling from his split lip confirmed that this was not a dream, but harsh reality. "My Lord, there was a mosquito on your face just now!"