Corpses

The final service was a head massage. The elven beauty had her guest rest his head against her lap, her hands gently kneading his scalp. The sound of the wind over the green turf was like a soft musical movement, while the fragrant floral scent in the air was intoxicating as fine wine. All kinds of "suggestions" eased one's soul into relaxation. To enhance the restful effect, Karen had even deliberately hypnotized himself, making the illusion's deception feel as real as possible. Yet in the end, it was still somewhat disappointing. The illusion technique was simply too low-grade; its heavy-handed delivery made the experience feel a bit like doing eye exercises on oneself. It wasn't even as enjoyable as lying in bed injured while Blanche attentively treated him. At least back then, both his body and mind had been completely relaxed. Blanche using specialized tweezers to peel away charred patches of skin from his body had felt almost like an ear-cleaning service. Hmm? Karen shook his head lightly. Why had that comparison come to mind? As if getting injured was an enjoyable thing. He pressed his fingertips against his forehead. Having endured so much, his mind had developed calluses; maintaining a fresh, delicate perception in reality had simply become too difficult. Karen's other hand subconsciously mimed a petting motion. He began to miss the feel of stroking Purr's back whenever she leaped into that spot. When the mind detached from reality, one always needed an anchor—a hook to stitch them back together. That was probably why, when Purr and the others weren't at home some time ago, he hadn't even bothered going home himself. Karen's subtle movements puzzled the female priest of the Abyss. She had "served" plenty of clients. Even with a routine like the "soothing massage," nearly every guest remained helplessly intoxicated by the pleasant illusion long after it ended. Yet this man's reaction was rather peculiar. She recalled the client's stated profession—a writer. A soft smile touched her lips. Perhaps writers were so accustomed to mental fantasies that the illusion's effectiveness was dulled? "Mr. Richard, please drink this tea." The priestess offered Karen a cup of black tea. A distinct fragrance drifted from the black tea. Compounded by the lingering dizziness at the illusion's end, an ordinary person would find it impossible to refuse. Karen knew this was the "tonic." Drinking it would stimulate the body's latent life force so that patrons wouldn't die in the mansion and arouse suspicion. Taking the teacup, Karen drank it all down. The tea, intended to provide a stimulating jolt, had virtually no effect on Karen. Its potency fell short of even a cigarette from the Church of Thunder. Even so, Karen remarked, "I feel invigorated all at once." "Mr. Richard, your service has concluded. You are welcome to continue resting here." "All right, thank you." The priestess departed in relatively good spirits. Even though everything happened through illusions, seeing these lowly ordinary people display their primitive instincts was still thoroughly disgusting. This client was quite nice—he had only ordered a massage and requested no release. Yet the moment she opened the door, a faint gloom touched her heart. For reasons unknown, a twinge of regret washed over her. It felt as though... she had missed out on something. She must have seen too many repulsive scenes lately. Encountering someone who wasn't disgusting felt unfamiliar to the point of jarring. The priestess headed toward the front desk to sign the voucher and await her next order. A wave of misery hit her at the thought of how many quotas she had yet to fill this month. Alas, she wondered whether the subordinates she had secretly outsourced her vitality collection tasks to had managed to finish them. ... Karen didn't linger in the room. After dressing, he stepped out and headed to the elevator, where he found Richard leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He took a drag and exhaled slowly. Richard lowered his head, flicked his bangs aside, and with the fingers holding his cigarette, casually brushed his chin, caressing nonexistent stubble. His eyes held a hollow, decadent look, as if he had pierced through to ultimate truth in this very moment, only to lose all sense of direction in life. Such expressions and gestures were common sights outside pastry shops. Upon spotting Karen, Richard immediately stubbed out his cigarette and stood up straight. Karen said, "You look like you thoroughly enjoyed yourself." Richard gave an expression caught between tears and laughter. "Felt like a painful wet dream." A child of the Guman family after all, the illusion conjured by the private room's array had not caused him to lose himself. But he had constantly kept in mind that they were here on a mission, and Richard lacked Karen's ability to directly modify an array's effects. As a result, he had passively endured the entire ordeal, experiencing an illusory wet dream under the "service" of a priest-technician devoid of any professional ethics. To make matters worse, the effects of his illusion had ended quickly, leaving him to watch as the priestess technician swept away every trace with a filthy mop, like cleaning off blood in a slaughterhouse assembly line. Sigh, it truly was... awful beyond words. Compared to these priestess technicians, even the aunties at pastry shops—renowned for rapid releases—possessed professional standards that reached the heavens. Richard turned his head and glanced at Karen. Seeing Karen's perfectly composed expression, Richard couldn't help but admire him. This "big brother" of his was truly far superior to him in everything, and this kind of encounter was no exception. Just look at him: he took it all in stride with the calm demeanor expected of a mission, while Richard was here acting all disgusted. Richard raised both hands and patted his own cheeks to snap back into form. Karen glanced at Richard, saying nothing. As they stepped out of the elevator, an attendant promptly approached with feedback forms, asking them to fill out reviews and note areas needing improvement. Richard reached out and took both forms, simply ticking the highest ratings across the board. Once he quickly finished his own and picked up Karen's, his eyes went wide. Damn it, a soothing massage! So you only got a massage, and I was the only one who endured the full experience? A storm churned in Richard's heart. He had thought they were brothers in suffering, which had brought him some comfort. Who would have guessed he was the sole victim carrying the burden? While Richard was busy filling out the ratings, Karen walked over to a round coffee table, waved over a server, and ordered two light meals. The necessary investigation was complete; now all that remained was to wrap up their "visit" and leave as naturally as possible. Richard hurried over, took a seat, and asked in confusion, "So we didn't have to take that service?" Karen deliberately countered, "What, you did?" "Come on, if we didn't take that service, weren't you worried about raising suspicion and making them think we were here snooping?" "Most people would assume that someone snooping would never just get a massage, precisely for fear of raising suspicion." "Ugh..." Richard let out a defeated sigh, letting his arms hang limply over the sides of his chair. Before long, the light meals were served. The food was exquisite—especially the Wien bean paste, which was served separately in a small ramekin rather than ladled directly over the food, much to Karen's satisfaction. As they ate, Richard spoke up, "I don't like the atmosphere here." Karen was tempted to remind him that they were here to conduct reconnaissance, not to review restaurants. Yet Richard's next words gave Karen pause. "I think any conflict between human beings is understandable—aggrieved technicians, cheerful technicians, coerced technicians, numb technicians; introverted guests, short-tempered guests, eccentric guests, courteous guests... All of that is normal when people interact. "But these priest-technicians... the way they look at guests is completely like looking at a different species of animal. It feels utterly revolting. They can sneer, but they shouldn't look at people like that. "They have no right to do so. They merely hold a faith and gained some power ordinary people lack, but they are still human." Karen picked up his cup and took a sip of water. He had previously worried that Richard's habit of loitering in pastry shops would twist his faith toward Goddess Mills. Yet this fellow was peculiar enough to have comprehended the true essence of Order's doctrine inside pastry shops. What was this—overtaking on a bend? Karen said, "That is precisely why the Code of Order exists: to isolate those who are not human, and those who do not consider themselves human, from true humans. "The Church of Order will not interfere in the evolution of human society. All the issues arising during that process are internal human contradictions. "The Church of Order does not take part in internal human conflicts; its duty is solely to sever external hands attempting to reach in." "That sounds awfully sophisticated. Are you sure that's just another translation of what I said?" Karen nodded. "Oh, all right." Richard nodded along. Then, remembering something, he asked, "Did you uncover anything?" "Tell me what you uncovered first." Richard: "..." Karen stopped teasing him and said, "A big fish. We'll make arrangements once we're out." After finishing their meal, Karen planned to wander a bit longer and leave naturally around two in the afternoon. Just then, he spotted three figures walking upstairs in the distance. Leading the way was Mrs. Bolifa, the female writer they had seen on their way in. Behind her walked two men, each clutching a drawing board under his arm. Their backs looked all too familiar. His wealthy friend Piaget, whom he had known since Rojia, and his prospective father-in-law, Mr. Bede. Had their wandering journey ended? Yet if they had returned, why hadn't they gone back to Allen Manor instead of showing up here first? His good friend and future father-in-law coming to patronize the mansion... normally, that was something he could pretend not to see. However, Karen was genuinely concerned they might stay and indulge themselves here for a week, which was quite common in this place. The problem was that three days from now, the garrison of Order would storm this establishment, placing everyone inside in grave peril. Karen stood and headed in that direction. Richard followed, asking as they walked, "Where are we going?" "I saw two acquaintances." The second floor was a functional hall divided into individual rooms where guests and employees alike could display their artistic talents. Naturally, some unconventional gimmicks were inevitably mixed in—such as the "flesh-toned pianist Aisen" right beside him. Inside a small studio, Mrs. Bolifa sat on the model podium. Having shed her coat, she wore rather revealing clothing. She must have neglected exercise in daily life; prolonged hunched-over writing and grief over her husband had aged her prematurely, and combined with her already advanced years, striking a pose caused her slack flesh to droop, resembling a wrinkled, dehydrated persimmon. Piaget and Mr. Bede had set up their drawing boards, each painting Mrs. Bolifa. The door was open, and as Karen reached the threshold, he could see both of their works. Piaget's painting skills had progressed by leaps and bounds. His depiction of Mrs. Bolifa possessed a hazy beauty unique to oil paintings, fully equipped with a built-in beautifying filter. Beside him, Mr. Bede was far more realistic, capturing every detail of Mrs. Bolifa's aged appearance. Karen could tell at a glance that his prospective father-in-law was doing it intentionally. Although the resemblance was striking, Mrs. Bolifa certainly wouldn't be fond of "such a realistic" version of herself, and would surely favor Piaget, who had painted her so beautifully. "I didn't order drinks," Mrs. Bolifa said upon seeing Karen step in. Piaget and Mr. Bede also turned to look at him, but because Karen had altered his appearance, they didn't recognize him. Well, Piaget didn't recognize him, but after turning back, Mr. Bede rested his chin in one hand and continued painting, giving his brush an intentional waggle before touching it to paper. "Madam, I am a fan of your books. If possible, I'd like to arrange for a commemorative photo with you over dinner tonight." "Of course," Mrs. Bolifa agreed with a smiling nod. "Then I won't disturb you any further, Madam." Karen stepped out of the studio and stood by the doorway. Richard spread his hands. "We're waiting?" "Yes." "Well, heaven knows how long that will take. You want to see those two painters? Easy." Richard pushed the door open and stepped into the studio, arms spread wide. "Oh, is this not my dearest Mrs. Bolifa? Every time I see you, my fingers tremble with an uncontrollable urge to play a private piece just for you." "Truly, Mr. Aisen?" "Of course! I have so much to say to you." Richard turned toward the two painters. "You two, step outside for a bit. I wish to spend some time alone with my Mrs. Bolifa." Piaget and Mr. Bede rose and left the studio. Seeing Karen standing in the hallway, Mr. Bede pointed to the room next door. "You can book another studio as a guest. We can talk in there." Piaget immediately showed a look of shock. "Men can do that too?" Mr. Bede chuckled. After Karen stepped into the adjacent studio, he waved Piaget over and followed him in. "Um, sir, there's something I need to tell you in advance. My services do not include—" *Click...* Before Piaget could finish, Mr. Bede closed the door and said, "Karen, what a surprise. To think I'd run into you here." "What? He's Karen?" Piaget's face was filled with shock. "Did you make a mistake?" "It seems your friendship isn't as solid as you thought. How could I possibly mistake him? A father and the man who stole his daughter away are natural enemies, after all." "Karen? Are you really Karen?" Piaget asked. Karen nodded. "It's me." "Oh heavens, I never imagined I'd meet you here!" Karen looked at Mr. Bede and asked, "Since you've returned, why didn't you go back to the manor first? Eunice and Madam miss you dearly." Mr. Bede shook his head. "Our journey hasn't ended. We merely arrived in York City; we didn't return home." "So you didn't even bother dropping by to visit?" Mr. Bede smiled. "Do you want me to go home, Karen? I once said that when I return, it will be to attend my daughter's wedding." Karen looked at Piaget. "You two are working as attendants here?" Piaget nodded. "Hospitality artists. Our pay is considerably higher than the regular servers." "Working here as..." Piaget suddenly recalled something and blurted, "Ah, Karen, you're a big shot now, right?" "Hmm?" "A really, really big shot. Completely different from when I last saw you in Samsara Valley, isn't that right?" "How did you know?" "The newspapers! I often see you in the church circles' newspapers. Especially a while back—it felt like every single church paper had reports about you." Mr. Bede complained discontentedly, "He took it upon himself to steal the point coupons I saved up just to buy newspapers, leaving us unable to even afford the teleportation arrays. We had to sit on hard train seats for half a month straight." Karen couldn't help but remark, "You two really seem to be on an ascetic pilgrimage." Mr. Bede shrugged, glanced at Piaget, and said, "We are." Hearing that response, Karen suddenly recalled how, when he had first met Alfred, Alfred always liked to say: in mythological tales, whenever a great being re-descends upon the world, there is always a loyal retainer by his side to protect and accompany him. So, was Mr. Bede Piaget's retainer? Karen asked, "Then what are you doing here? You can't earn point coupons working in this place." Though this establishment was secretly an Abyss property, the public-facing service staff could only earn riels as wages. "Because a month ago, Piaget painted a picture," Mr. Bede explained. "After seeing it, I pondered for a long time before recognizing that it depicted this very place in York City. The painting was quite mesmerizing, so we came here to witness a spectacle." "Where is the painting?" "Right here." Mr. Bede drew a fountain pen from his pocket, pulled off the cap, and drew out what looked like a silk scarf. It was paper-thin and completely transparent, yet unfolded to a considerable size, exceeding normal drawing paper. Karen remarked, "The material is very expensive." "Of course. Point coupons aren't easy to earn. But Piaget and I agreed that unless our hands were itching terribly to paint, we would never use this material. A Marnais scroll—light, durable, easy to carry. Though painting on it is extraordinarily difficult, its preservation qualities are superb." Piaget said, a bit sheepishly, "So far, I've only used it once. Mr. Bede hasn't touched his at all." Mr. Bede spread the silk scroll out on the floor. Before long, the originally transparent scroll began to reveal the artwork. Karen bent down and examined it. In the painting was a six-winged angel suspended in midair. Above hung a blood moon, surrounded on all sides by darkness. Karen looked up at Piaget. Piaget had painted this; he had prophesied the appearance of the six-winged angel. "Hold on, I divided this painting into two halves. The lower half is here." Mr. Bede unrolled a second silk scroll onto the floor, joining it to the first. Below was a cluster of buildings, the central one being this very mansion. At this moment, flames engulfed the mansion and surrounding structures, the streets ran with magma, and corpses were strewn everywhere—a literal hell on earth. Mr. Bede remarked with a sigh, "It is hard to imagine such a tragic scene taking place in York City." Karen replied, "Such a tragedy will not happen, because..." Karen had originally intended to say: because he was already here and had discovered the existence of this angel ahead of time; soon, the garrison of the Church of Order and the Whip of Order would storm this place and resolve everything. Yet his words caught in his throat. As he lowered his gaze and leaned closer to scrutinize the corpses lying on the ground in the painting, he suddenly realized what they were wearing: Black armor, and black clerical robes...