Descent of an Angel

"Here." Richard handed Karen a small reagent vial containing Richard's essence blood—the refined essence of human blood. "Mm." Karen took it naturally and slipped it into his pocket. There was nothing to feel awkward about. With Little Jerry inside him, Richard's blood-producing capability was remarkably robust; otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to get beaten bloody time after time only to bounce back full of vigor each time. After the security guards at the entrance inspected their membership cards, Karen and Richard were admitted into the manor. Patrol squads crisscrossed the grounds, maintaining strict security. After all, this was an upscale establishment. The dissolute indulgences of numerous celebrities here could never be allowed to leak out. A carriage rolled past the two of them. Its curtains were drawn back, revealing a woman sitting inside. Although her makeup was thick, it could not conceal her age; she looked close to fifty. Karen and Richard could have ridden inside by carriage as well, but they had declined the courtesy so they could observe the environment more closely. Once the carriage passed, Richard leaned close to Karen and whispered, "That's Madame Baolifa, a very renowned author." "Her?" "Oh? You've read her books?" Richard asked, a little surprised. "Mm." Karen had always kept a habit of reading, often pulling a book from the shelf to browse through in his leisure time. From Ruilan to Wien, he had maintained the habit to this day. Combined with a reading speed far faster than that of ordinary people, he had accumulated quite an extensive reading record. This Madame Baolifa had several celebrated works: *Darling, I Want to Whisper to You*, *Love Letters to Heaven*, and *My Cheek Misses the Back of Your Hand*. Her prose was concise yet delicate, the themes always revolving around mourning her late husband and reminiscing about the tender life they had shared. Because of that, while her books weren't runaway bestsellers, she maintained a steady readership. She also frequently attended public or government-organized events and carried considerable influence. Richard held up three fingers. "That lady plays hard. Blindfolded boxers—she ordered three for herself at once." Ahead, a man paused, deliberately turned back toward Richard, and gave him a wave. Richard waved back, then pointed at Karen beside him, signaling that he was with a friend and bidding the man go in first. The man was tall and solidly built, looking very much like a tenor—which, in fact, he was. "Mobigar, a famous singer. I've played music with him here before. His best-known songs are all about loyalty to love, and his top hit tracks are mostly the tragic sort. His wife passed away early." Karen asked, "Does he like ordering three at a time too?" "Just one..." "That sounds fairly normal." "A boxer." "Heh." Richard chuckled along and said, "Haha, what else can they do? They have public personas to protect. Arranging trysts with their readers or listeners easily leads to trouble and ruins their reputation. But if they go to pastry shops, getting caught by a snapshot would wreck their reputations just the same. "Yet every single one of them is quite wealthy. Being so rich, who would want to live so miserably and have to use their own hand?" "Are there many mansions like this in Yorktown?" "Not too many, but not few, either. Service prices and service demand define its stratified market. Personally, though, I still prefer pastry shops. I feel those places actually have the flavor of life, and chatting there is fun." "Chatting here isn't fun?" "Last time, I was sitting on a bed in a private room here, drinking coffee and chatting with a waitress. I deliberately tried to hold a profound conversation, only to find out right as we wrapped up that she was an enrolled student from the Philosophy Department at Yorktown Imperial University." "Rather than finding free time to chat with others outside, you'd do better going home more often to speak with your father." "Karen, search your conscience. Is speaking what my father wants?" "Communication remains necessary." "Hah. Nowadays, whenever I talk with my dad, within a few sentences I can tell he's looking for an excuse to thrash me. Luckily, I've kept my hands clean lately without leaving any traces, so he hasn't had an opportunity to seize upon." Stepping through the main entrance of the building, they found the ground floor laid out like a massive café. The space was expansive, partitioned into many separate sections, and some booths were even draped with black cloth. "The first floor is fairly normal. On the second, third, fourth floors, and higher up, the varieties and gimmicks multiply." "Let's pick the most direct service," Karen said. There was no need to sample them one by one. They hadn't come specifically to tour a brothel, no matter how upscale it was. "Alright. I'll go make the arrangements. Just for you alone?" "For both of us." "I don't want to. I hate this kind of physical transaction devoid of an emotional foundation. It makes me think of two dogs mating in the street." "Back in the theater on Dark Moon Island, didn't you pick one?" "Would you believe me if I said that mermaid and I were playing chess on her scales?" "Yet you described it so vividly after you came out." "That was just to fit in with the crowd." Richard slapped his forehead. "Forget it. This time I'll treat it as sacrificing myself for art. But how far do we actually have to go?" "You won't get drained dry all at once. What are you afraid of?" "Fine. I'll go to the front desk and request the highest-tier service, because that requires using the top-floor rooms. The rooms up there are large and exquisitely furnished—I imagine they must be their converted workrooms." "Go on, I'll wait for you." *Snap!* Richard snapped his fingers. "Waiter, two glasses of ice water over here." With that, he headed to the reception counter. Karen casually found a seat and sat down. Just as he settled in, several well-dressed elderly gentlemen sat down at the table next to him. These old men were in high spirits, their complexions ruddy, yet Karen could sense that their vitality had an unnatural quality. Was this the result of having their vitality extracted and then consuming tonics, giving each of them symptoms of false heat? One had to realize that within a knight order, only knights forged through rigorous discipline could endure the rapid extraction and bestowal of power on the battlefield. These, however, were merely an assembly of elderly men... In perhaps three or four months, at most half a year, their bodies would collapse abruptly and they would pass away very swiftly. What they were currently undergoing was essentially burning the firewood meant for the next ten or even twenty years all in this brief span. One old man, holding a pipe, said in a loud voice, "I still stand by my view. I cannot change the ending of this story into a comedy. A tragedy better suits the theme of my series." Another old man countered, "However, most readers don't care for tragic endings. Sometimes, we need more confidence in our creative work. While staying true to ourselves, we shouldn't deliberately run contrary to our readership." "Enough, enough. You've come all the way here and you're still talking about creative writing? Come on, we slipped out of our homes under the guise of an authors' gathering to come here. Did we really come just to pick up our pens and keep writing books?" "Well said. Since we're here, we ought to enjoy ourselves thoroughly. Has anyone looked at today's program schedule? Are there any activities this morning?" "There are, but most are scheduled for the afternoon and evening. After all, those staying here can never get up in the morning, and the ones arriving today won't show up until after noon." A balding middle-aged man jogged over. "Haha, Kutme, looks like you really wore yourself out last night, only getting up now. We've already had breakfast and gone for a stroll." Kutme sat down and shrugged helplessly. "I was just on the telephone with my office secretary. He said he received two crates of razor blades sent by readers last night! "My secretary was scared out of his wits, convinced it was a death threat. Over the phone, he practically begged me to alter the plot of my serial novel in the *Wien Labor Gazette* to prevent readers from doing something even more extreme. Bah, you have to realize, my office windows were replaced five times last month!" "Kutme, I don't think it's about altering the plot. I've been following your novel too, but I haven't seen it in the paper for a month. Did the paper cut it because of poor reception?" "No, I've had no inspiration lately, so I couldn't submit my manuscripts." "Haha, then you had it coming!" "Come on, waiter, bring us a copy of today's service menu. Kutme, let's take a good look at today's program. Trust me, you'll definitely find true inspiration here." Sitting nearby, Karen quietly took a sip of his ice water. Looking down at his membership card, he saw that he, too, was apparently a "writer," though he harbored no desire to integrate into their group. Yet even though he had no intention of joining, someone took the initiative to approach him—namely, that Kutme. "A fellow colleague, I presume?" Kutme asked with a smile. "How can you tell?" Karen asked. "I've always had an accurate eye for people. I write detective fiction, after all. If I weren't writing novels full-time, I might already be a police chief by now." *The head of an orthodox church's law enforcement branch, mistaken by you for a fellow author. Fortunately for everyone, you never became a police chief.* "Come on, want me to bring you into the circle?" Kutme asked. "Shall I introduce you to them?" Karen shook his head. "Fair enough. Forcing your way in when you're not on the same level is meaningless. Our circle of writers is very pure—purely practical, that is, hahaha." "Every circle is essentially the same." "Perhaps. Hey, why are you drinking ice water first thing in the morning?" "I'm used to it." "It's bad for your stomach." Kutme rubbed his belly. "My stomach's been acting up, so I try to avoid irritating it as much as possible nowadays. Ah, life is still so wonderful; I still want to keep admiring this world." Karen offered a piece of advice: "You could stop coming to this place." "Hm?" "If you wish to live longer, that is." "You're right. Living here is too comfortable; it will corrode my soul. That's why I don't plan on lingering as long as they do. I intend to head back the day after tomorrow. I'm afraid if I don't return to churn out pages, they'll mail a dynamite bundle to my office." Karen nodded. *Then you might actually live long enough to attend all of their funerals.* Soon, Richard returned. Seeing Richard, the table of elderly writers immediately stood and called out: "Look who's here, whew!" "Hey there, the great flesh-toned piano virtuoso, Master Aisen!" "I'll definitely attend your piano performance in the performance hall this afternoon!" Richard exchanged greetings with them, then left his seat alongside Karen. "Karen, I've got it arranged. We can head upstairs right away." Karen and Richard walked together toward the elevators, where two attendants were already waiting. Entering the elevator, they rode directly to the top floor. "Mr. Aisen, please come with me." "Mr. Richard, please come with me." The two attendants stepped forward to guide Karen and Richard toward rooms in opposite directions. Richard asked, "Are there no adjacent rooms?" The attendant smiled and answered, "Mr. Aisen, because you requested the most distinguished service, the suites here are exceptionally large and well soundproofed, so whether they are adjacent will make no difference. Of course, if the two of you have a preference in that regard, we can arrange for the service to take place in the same suite." "No, no, I have no such special request." While refusing, Richard leaned toward Karen and murmured, "I'm a little nervous." Karen replied, "Have faith in your Little Jerry." With that, the two parted ways, and Karen was ushered into a private suite. "Mr. Richard, here is the service specification form. Please check the boxes behind the desired options." "Alright." Karen sat down on the sofa. The suite was spacious, featuring a large bed, a parlor, a study, and naturally, an expansive washroom—which, by all accounts, was bound to be the most frequently utilized centerpiece here. The form was lengthy, requiring individual selections across numerous categories, including thematic ambiance, scenario, setting, and attire. The last time Karen had filled out a form like this was when he first ordered his clerical robes at the Church Affairs Building. However, scenario and attire could be changed at any time, and thematic ambiance was straightforward enough, but what did "setting" mean? Would the suite's furnishings need to be remodeled? How much time and trouble would that take? Karen suspected that most patrons walking into this suite would hardly possess such patience. Furthermore, at the very bottom, there was even an item: [Method of Release]. There were plenty of options there as well; Karen chose "Soothing Massage." Once every box was checked, the attendant picked up the sheet. "Please wait a moment, sir." "Alright." Just as the attendant turned away, he turned back. "Mr. Richard, are you certain your method of release is 'Soothing Massage'?" "Yes, that's correct." "Mr. Richard, I must remind you that once confirmed, the service items cannot be changed midway. Which is to say, if at that time you wish to..." "I am certain." "Very well, sir. Please wait a moment." The attendant exited. Karen stood and walked over to the desk. A notebook and fountain pen rested on top, and beside it stood a bookcase filled with numerous books. They were quite new, yet nearly all showed signs of having been perused. Evidently, plenty of patrons engaged in brief exchanges with the literary sages during their post-climax reflections. Karen walked to the window. The sunlight outside was pleasant—rare fine weather. Closing his eyes, he focused his senses. *Mm.* As expected, a formation had been laid out in the room. The Key to the Rubik's Cube materialized in Karen's palm. He began making modifications to the formation here, not only seizing primary control over it, but even thoughtfully enhancing its strength. Consider it a formation master's obsessive-compulsive tendency; coming across shoddy craftsmanship simply made him uncomfortable. *Clack, clack, clack...* A crisp sequence of high heels approaching sounded from beyond the door. Yet the noise didn't actually come from the outside; it was an acoustic simulation emanating from a wall clock inside the room. *Creak...* The door was pushed open. Simultaneously, Karen caught a fragrant scent as distinctive ripples resonated through the air around him. It was mental hypnosis. Karen instinctively suppressed his mental power to keep from launching a reflexive counterattack. Then, he attempted to actively immerse himself. This amounted to forcing himself to jump into a fiery pit while carefully watching his step for fear of snuffing out the flame by accident. Finally, Karen "saw" a lush carpet of green grass, with a small pond lying ahead. This was the setting he had selected earlier: *Green Fields*. "You must be tired. Don't be afraid, I'm here to keep you company." A woman's voice drifted from behind him. Karen turned around to see a beautiful woman wearing a translucent green gown, bearing dragonfly-like wings, slowly descending from midair. Yet Karen's true vision had already pierced through the barrier of the illusion. Inside the suite, he saw a cool, aloof woman dressed in yellow casual wear, holding an exquisite wooden box as she guided the formation's resonance. The elven woman in the illusion was sweet and gentle, whereas the real woman was cold and impassive, her face bearing a trace of disdain and impatience. Karen understood her resentment. As an exalted priest, having to serve ordinary mortals here made her feel that her self-esteem was being trampled. Within the illusion, the beautiful female elf invited Karen to bathe together. Following her guidance, Karen shed his garments piece by piece and stepped into the pond—in reality, the bathtub in the washroom. The woman in reality held the wooden box aloft, allowing it to levitate on its own. She picked up a wooden plunger and a slightly soiled non-slip mat from the washroom, preparing to scrub Karen's back. "Guests" in reality would feel none of this; their senses would register only the lovely female elf washing their bodies with gentle, meticulous care, brimming with intimacy. Karen sat in the tub, resting both hands on its rim. The woman approached. When she saw Karen—especially when she met his gaze—a sudden pang of dread seized her. She did not know where this feeling came from, nor did it trigger her alarm. Purely out of instinct, she set down the plunger and the dirty mat, washed her hands at the sink, picked up a clean towel, and walked back over. From the floating wooden box, a yellow thread extended, silently piercing into Karen's arm. Vitality and blood began to drain slowly outward. So that artifact spirit's standards were high enough that it not only required the essence blood of so-called artists, but insisted on harvesting it while their minds were in a state of euphoria. Heh, possessed such an artisan spirit, did it? Just as the woman's hand was about to touch his body, Karen raised his hand. *Buzz!* A dazed look crossed the woman's eyes before clarity returned. She then shifted to the side and began scrubbing a nonexistent person; next, she would continue servicing that empty air. The formation effect originally intended for the guest had been diverted by Karen onto the woman herself. For a dignified head of the Law Enforcement Department of the Whip of Order in the York City Region, dealing with a low-ranking priestess of the Church of the Abyss was child's play. The reason Karen chose to hit pause now was not because he regarded his body as inviolable and sacred, but because he noticed another thread running from the wooden box up into the chandelier. This wasn't absorption, storage, transport, and later use; this was immediate extraction for instant consumption, ensuring the utmost freshness. At the same time, this implied something else: the "consumer"—or rather, the "diner"—had to be right inside this manor! Under such circumstances, Karen could never allow his own blood to be drawn in. His blood carried immense uncertainty. Little Jerry could frolic vigorously inside Richard's body, but inside his own, it wouldn't survive a single minute. *Snap!* Karen severed the thread piercing his arm, retracted the segment that had already drawn his blood, and pulled the reagent vial from his pocket. Uncorking the stopper, he submerged the remaining end of the thread into the vial. Fortunately, he had prepared in advance and secured a reserve supply from Richard. This way, Richard's blood would substitute for the process, raising no suspicion or alarm. Having done this, Karen raised his hand. A white chain of Order sprouted from beneath his feet and snaked upward through the air, coiling around the wooden box. Finally, as Karen closed his eyes, the chain of Order sank into it. Back in the Church of the Crypt's Old Wien Restaurant, Karen had used this very technique of tracing to find the skeleton's true body. This time, it would be countless times simpler, because not only was there a direct physical link, but the target was right nearby. Images began surfacing in Karen's mind. Still this suite, then his perspective followed the thread downward, descending floor by floor until it entered the subterranean levels, plunging deeper into the earth. Once beneath the ground, Karen sensed layers of intricate seals and defensive formations arrayed all around, along with several auras that sent a chill through him. The defensive strength down here was absurdly formidable. The Church of the Abyss had secretly assembled so many senior priests right inside Yorktown, the traditional sphere of Order's influence. This was an immense taboo, as it would easily make the other party question your intentions, or even suspect you were preparing for war. Against these defenses alone, the forces of the Whip of Order and the Regional Administrative Office would face tremendous difficulty and heavy casualties trying to breach the site. At the very least, they would need to mobilize the garrison. *Inquisitor Dake, my dear uncle-in-law, you really hooked a massive fish this time.* Because Karen's consciousness traveled along the thread, it bypassed every defense perfectly, ultimately reaching the deepest core chamber. This was a hollowed-out subterranean vaulted dome containing a thirteen-tiered sacrificial altar, atop which rested an enormous black stone sarcophagus. The sarcophagus lid had been pried open. Threads converged here in a dense web—at least several dozen—all plunging inside. Right then, Karen detected a familiar aura. The desires within his heart abruptly surged, though Karen swiftly suppressed them. A Laks copper coin! Luoya had given him coordinates; a Laks copper coin lay in the waters near Wien. Karen simply hadn't found time amidst his various affairs to search for it, knowing full well that salvaging it would be no simple task. Just like the excursion to Compasini's burial grounds, which had seemed as simple as a business trip on the surface, his squad had ended up facing the brink of annihilation. Yet that copper coin had actually appeared here. Had the Church of the Abyss dredged it up? Perhaps influenced by the coin, Karen's desires magnified, and a sudden anger flared in his chest: *How dare you steal something that belongs to me?* Upstairs in the suite, Karen drew a deep breath at once, quelling the stray thoughts in his mind and restoring the purity of his consciousness below. No, there was another, far more powerful aura down there—one that did not belong to the Laks copper coin! As his consciousness pressed deeper, Karen finally caught sight of the full scene beneath. The Laks copper coin had been laid across the chest of the figure lying inside the sarcophagus, and those threads were all entwined around his body. So it wasn't that the Laks copper coin had birthed a second artifact spirit. Here, the coin was merely an... ornament? Yet the guiding effect of the Laks copper coin could not be overlooked. As the Source of Sin, its influence was undeniable. The entity lying below had originally required only a certain amount of vitality to replenish himself—it could be said he had merely been hungry and needed food to fill his belly—yet under the coin's influence, he had turned into an excessively fastidious, discerning gourmet. At last, every veil clouding his sight was bored through by Karen's consciousness, and the figure lying in the sarcophagus appeared clearly in Karen's vision. His body was covered in hideous wounds, large patches of white bone exposed. Auras of sacred purity and foul corruption were interwoven across his form, yet they did not clash in the slightest; instead, they presented a bizarre harmony. Furthermore, he possessed a pair of... black wings. He was not human. He was an angel!