Linkage

Night fell. Old Keya came down in person carrying a brazier. Unlocking the cell door, he set it down before Karen. Autumn in Wien was already equivalent to winter in many other places. Today's average temperature hovered around four degrees Celsius, dropping even lower after dark. On top of that, this past summer had been hotter than usual, prompting climate experts writing for the Wien Daily to predict that this winter would be longer and colder than previous ones. The Wien Economic Herald had gone so far as to urge citizens to stockpile coal early. Because shipping had been disrupted by the war, electricity and heating costs were bound to rise this winter. At a public government briefing, the deputy mayor of Yorktown had even shared winter survival tips with the citizenry, such as washing only a few essential spots when bathing. However, secular shifts rarely had an immediate impact on ecclesiastical circles—or rather, the ripple effect took a long time to travel. The brazier Old Keya brought down did not burn charcoal. Instead, he pulled out a large chunk of fire crystal, placed it inside, and ignited it with an art. Warmth instantly surged through the room. Although it was a low-grade fire crystal and not excessively expensive, it was still a magical material. Using it for casual warmth was undeniably extravagant—like burning a whole can of gasoline just to light a cigarette. Old Keya asked warmly, "How is the temperature? If it's not enough, I can add a little more." "It's very good. Thank you. Sorry for putting you out of pocket." "Look at what you're saying! Please, use it with an easy mind. For the past two weeks, five bishops—ah, no, six bishops—have also been held in another cellblock, granted top-tier detention accommodations specially approved by the head of Logistics." Old Keya rubbed his fingertips together in Karen's direction and continued, "A lot of excess fell into my hands, after all." Airing one's minor misdeeds in front of another person was sometimes a clever way to build rapport. Hearing this, Karen was momentarily stunned before feeling amused. It reminded him of when he had stayed in a hotel on church expenses and told Ventura to max out the entire tobacco and alcohol allowance. Old Keya had clearly skimmed from the allowances meant for those six lord bishops. Karen asked, "Won't they object?" Old Keya shook his head and chuckled. "Those lords have never spent time in a cell before." "Fair point." Karen looked at his brother-in-arms on the opposite bunk and asked, "Aren't you going to use the brazier?" Lying on the cot with one leg crossed over the other and a pen clamped between his teeth, Neo waved a dismissive hand. "I'm young. My fire burns hot." "Is there anything you'd like for a late-night snack?" Old Keya asked Karen attentively. Neo cut in, "Don't bother. When we get hungry, we'll go out and grab something ourselves." Old Keya maintained a slightly stiff smile and nodded. "Of course, of course." Then he stood, walked to the cell door, hesitated for a moment, and turned the lock anyway. Once Old Keya was gone, Neo turned his head toward Karen on the opposite bunk and asked, "Why hasn't the obituary come out yet?" Karen answered, "By rights, he should already be gone. But the obituary will take longer to be issued. They need to coordinate their public story and reach a consensus on how to handle the whole affair first." "You're that certain Wolflen will die?" "Yes." "Was this part of your agreed-upon plan?" "No. It wasn't discussed in such detail at first. Just like you, I assumed the Head Bishop would shoulder the blame through emotional appeals and formal grievances. He had every qualification to do so." "Yeah, exactly. He had more than enough qualification. Especially with his recent personal and familial tragedies—they added quite a few 'blessings' to him and gave him plenty of political points." "But the moment the knights charged into the headquarters courtyard, I suddenly realized: the Head Bishop was going to die." "Why do you say that?" "Before something actually happens, people tend to have an inexplicable sense of superiority and control. But once it truly takes place... it's like stepping out from a heated room into the bitter cold. You knew it would be freezing outside, but once that icy wind hits you and you shudder, your mind clears up in an instant. With things pushed to this point, if the Head Bishop doesn't die, there's no way to neatly wrap it up." "Fair enough. If dying really was unavoidable... were it me, to maximize the value of my death, I'd get in touch with the High Priest and die right in his face." Karen fell silent. "Hey, why did you go quiet?" Neo asked. Karen sighed. Leaning back against the edge of the cot, Karen said, "If it were me, that's what I would have done too." "What?" Neo sat up, spreading his hands. "I don't get it." Even though Neo had proposed the scenario himself, he could not fathom it. This was hardly surprising. When playing chess, people rarely put themselves in the position of a pawn; if they actually tried, they often found they couldn't identify with it. "What do you think is the essence of this entire affair?" Karen asked. "A factional struggle, obviously. You and Bern acted as the Head Bishop's enforcers, while Bernie was on the other side—oh, and that Dunk, plus whatever big shots sit above Bernie." Karen and Neo had analyzed the figure standing behind Bernie, but no matter how they examined it, they could not form a clear picture. If that patron had truly discovered Karen's identity, he would have either left Karen untouched or struck with lethal finality. Instead, his strikes had been remarkably gentle, and the moment Karen's side counterattacked, the man had immediately backed down—a vivid display of erratic indecision. Neo had even cursed about it: How does that kind of petty maneuvering look anything like a grand figure? It's just like Paige and Fannie getting jealous and squabbling in my office. Yet regardless, a clash between two factions had indeed taken shape, and one side had crossed the line to completely crush the other. "Did they lose?" Karen asked. "Didn't they? Whether here at headquarters or over at the Regional Administrative Office, at least half of them will have to pack their bedrolls and get ready to leave." "Alright, they lost." Karen paused, then asked, "Did we win, then?" "Nonsense. How is that not winning?" "Where is the win?" Mid-sentence, Karen's mouth fell half-open. He bowed his head, his right hand tightly clutching his chest. Damn it... That hunger seemed to be returning. Neo answered, "Bern is going to become the new Head Bishop." Karen gritted his teeth and said, "But he will lose control over the garrison and the forces lingering in the shadows. Even if the seat of Head Bishop is handed to him, it's merely a consolation prize after being stripped of what is truly valuable." "You might become a department head..." "A department head forever? I had a bright future ahead of me, but now it's gone. If nothing unexpected happens, hah... I will be just like my grandfather, sitting in a single position for the rest of my life." "Wolflen..." Neo found himself unable to continue. "He's dead." "Tsk, tsk." Neo clicked his tongue and asked, "Then what was his ultimate goal in doing all this?" Cold sweat had begun beading on Karen's face as the hunger addiction surged upward relentlessly, yet he forced himself to answer: "He wanted to use this method to tell the High Priest..." *** "He wanted to tell me that there is no factional struggle in Yorktown." Twirling a fountain pen between his fingers, High Priest Norton spoke into the void of darkness before him. "A moment ago, I pulled all the records regarding that Head Bishop," a voice resonated from within the dark. "The conclusion is that he was an outstanding and responsible Head Bishop whose duties were consistently handled well." Soon after, an enormous tortoise slowly emerged. Covered from head to tail in armor-like scales, its sheer size was staggering. Even if Augie the frost dragon revealed her true form, she would likely look like little more than an earthworm before it. Its likeness had appeared in the murals of the Church of Order. During an ancient divine war, when the God of Order was gravely wounded, it had carried Him aloft, granting Him a chance to catch His breath. Later, it became one of the Guardian Divine Beasts of the Church of Order during its founding era. Naturally, the same individual had not survived until the present day. In truth, it had passed down through five generations. Each lineage born anew possessed its own self while inheriting the memories of its predecessors. The first Basse had enjoyed exalted status, standing near the pinnacle of the church's hierarchy thanks to its illustrious deeds. The Crypt Church had even been willing to accept it as the eighth deity of the Crypt. The second Basse had been active toward the end of the last era. Having committed a grave transgression, it was whipped by Lord Tyrannus, suffering permanent damage to both flesh and soul. This directly caused the successive generations of its lineage to grow weaker and weaker. As for the third and fourth generations, they had long since lost the glory of their ancestor, gradually reduced to the status of "beasts of utility" within the Church of Order. This was the fifth Basse. Upon ascending to the seat of High Priest, Norton had issued an order to construct his personal administrative divine hall upon Basse's shell. However, this was not manifested in a purely physical sense; ordinary people would never discover that beneath the sacred hall lay such a terrifying leviathan. Norton pointed a finger to his forehead. "I don't need you to recite the records to me. Even though I am the High Priest now, I still know very well what kind of person each regional Head Bishop is." "You were moved." Norton fell silent. Basse continued, "Even a heart as forged and unyielding as refined steel, capable of enduring the relentless beatings of time, may develop a faint crack when caressed by an unexpected breeze." "I don't know whether this can be called being moved," Norton said. "Before Theisen died, he said a great deal to me and left me a very long letter. But after reading it, I felt nothing." "Because... Theisen's status was far higher than Wolflen's. Theisen was once your rival; when you first sat as an observer at the Round Table Council, he voiced his clear opposition. Whatever Theisen did, you would subconsciously assume it was some sort of ploy. Even when you knew some of his words were right, even when you understood his words warranted a hearing—the moment you deliberately straightened your posture to listen, you had already raised every defense. "High Priest, you possess your own supreme ambition, your grand vision of leading the Church of Order to forge a new era. You are prepared to trample over every flower and blade of grass that dares obstruct your path, no matter how bright and beautiful they might be. "Wolflen was neither a flower nor grass, and certainly not a tree. He was merely a fallen leaf that happened to drift down before you and brush against the toe of your shoe." "Are you reciting poetry, Basse?" "Merely stating a reality. You know what I say is true. You know what kind of man Wolflen was. In his final moments, he must have felt regret; he must have felt remorse... You are worried whether a day will come when you, too, will face the same." "I will never have regrets." "That is your strength... but perhaps it is also your weakness." "Are you mocking me?" "I dare not show disrespect to you. In truth, speaking with you is an immense strain. Every time I appear before you, phantom pain from the whipping of ancient days aches across my back and soul. Yet I dare not withhold my true thoughts, for I know that any platitudes before you would be deemed an even more unforgivable offense." Norton said, "This is merely a minor matter." "Indeed. Heinous as its nature was, it remains a minor matter. Even if it stirred up fierce winds, you have long stood beyond where any wind can reach or sway you. Yet... it did manage to blow against you in another way. "I believe you may be wondering whether Wolflen's deliberate choice to die before your eyes—beyond offering an accounting to you, to the Holy See, and to the Church—also contained a warning and an admonition directed at you. "A regional Head Bishop lacks the qualification to truly interfere in the Church's core operations, let alone influence its grand policies. Yet standing outside that inner circle, he could see things more clearly, and perhaps understand them better. "He was an exceptional Head Bishop—a touch warm, a touch smooth around the edges, capable of balancing every side. Had he not lacked greater patronage and opportunity, he would have been promoted to the Dinge Region, drawing near to the Church's core circle. "Such a man, in the final moments of his life, chose the most radical method to purge an entire region... "High Priest, he was actually repenting before you." Norton raised his head. "The tone of your words seems to be shifting." "Speech is an art. If one wishes to convey an argument in the best possible light, the necessary groundwork cannot be spared. In my eyes, he was neither mocking you nor using death to offer remonstrance... "He was, "agreeing with you!" A black chair manifested behind High Priest Norton. He sat down and crossed his arms over his chest, as if his interest had been piqued and he wished to hear Basse out. Inadvertently, however, his right hand pressed against his chest, a flicker of wrath surfacing in his eyes as though suppressing something within. "Is the current state of Yorktown not an exact microcosm of the entire Church of Order? The Church of Order will continue to grow powerful, and it will remain powerful for a very long time. But its future, just like the law formulated by those madmen of the Church of Principles, will walk the old path of the Church of Light, eventually marching toward destruction. "To deal with rotting flesh, the best approach is to take the sharpest blade while the body is still relatively young and scrape it completely clean. "This method cannot be used on secular nations, for radical reform can cause a country to fracture and collapse. But for a divine church, that limitation does not apply. For a church is fundamentally an accessory built upon the foundation of a god." "Do you know how profound an impact your words will have on the coming resolution for Yorktown?" "Do you mean my claim that Head Bishop Wolflen used his death to agree with and support you? You would have realized that on your own in the time it takes to finish a cup of tea, without any need for my words. My existence, much like the great hall resting upon my back, merely saves you a bit of time to think." "He not only gave me an explanation, and gave the Church an explanation, but he also... flattered me." "Yes, you are right. He was like an errant child who took the initiative to admit his wrongdoing; coupled with his smile, he left you not only unable to bear punishing him, but inclined to give him a sweet instead. In what follows, you will treat this heinous upheaval in Yorktown with leniency. That was the sweet he wanted." "Basse, now I understand why your ancestor was whipped by Tyrannus. The intellect of your kin makes it far too easy for you to cross the line without realizing it." "No, I believe the reason my ancestor was whipped was that you foresaw the end of the previous era. The gods were about to fade, and a Basse possessing an immense body and terrifying intellect would have become an unstable variable for the Church of Order. Thus, you whipped my ancestor ahead of time." "Oh? Is that so? To think he would commit such a foolish act as crippling his own arm out of preemptive caution." "That was because you were the one sitting in that seat back then. Without your final arrangements, the Church of Order might have perished alongside the Church of Light long ago." "He was him, and I am me." "I am myself as well, and my ancestors are my ancestors. Yet much of the time, there is no dividing me from them." "You are a beast." "Yes, your definition is correct. That was precisely what you said when you whipped my ancestor back then." "Heh." Norton waved a hand. "Be gone." "Yes. This beast takes its leave." Basse's massive form melted back into the darkness. *Hiss...* High Priest Norton drew in a sharp breath. A different gaze surfaced within his eyes, and a faint silhouette coalesced behind him. The figure held two books in its left hand—the Code of Order and the Light of Order—while its right hand held a scepter, seemingly gazing toward a distant future beyond endless ages. "I said, I am me, and you are you. Tyrannus, I have never acknowledged myself as any Holy Child, nor do I consider myself your successor. I am simply me: Norton, an orphan. "As my standing within the Church has risen, I can feel that restless stir of yours growing increasingly pronounced. "I know you are lonely. "But I am sorry to say: "Even if I grow tired of playing, "as long as I sit in this chair for one more day, "you "have no right to take the table!" A black dagger appeared in Norton's palm—the divine artifact, Sigh of Eternal Life. The next instant, the dagger drove straight into Norton's chest! The phantom silhouette behind him and the unfamiliar gaze within his eyes swiftly dispersed. Agonizing torment forced him to grit his teeth, his expression twisting, utterly stripped of his dignified bearing as High Priest. Far away, in the dungeon of the Whip of Order headquarters in Yorktown, a cluster of Fire of Light condensed in Karen's palm and slammed into his own chest. The searing agony consuming his soul robbed Karen of all composure, curling his body almost double. Norton (and Karen) let out a stifled, utterly suppressed roar: "Get... the fuck out!"