"Wow, Mr. Bede, look—what an astonishing composition."
Piaget was currently lying prone on the balcony of a residential building on the periphery of the mansion, peering through the railing at the scene ahead.
He was draped in a black fur blanket marked with special patterns, which served as a distinct friendly-or-foe identification insignia. Without it, lying out here would easily invite an arrow from the falcon knights circling above.
Beside Piaget, Mr. Bede was receiving the exact same treatment. Both of them lay there like war correspondents.
This had naturally been arranged deliberately by Alfred. He knew full well these two "artists" and their obsessive devotion to art, and understood even better that the lunatics of the Church of the Mural God were capable of absolutely anything.
To Alfred, no matter how flawless an operational plan was, if it got the young master's close friend and prospective father-in-law killed in the process, it would be an utter, unmitigated failure.
Mr. Bede asked, "Isn't this the very painting you produced?"
"Is it?" Piaget frowned in thought for a moment, then shook his head firmly. "No, it's different."
"How is it different?" Mr. Bede shifted closer to Piaget. "Look at Karen in the sky. Isn't that the exact image of the six-winged angel from your painting? The flowing magma below, the lingering flames of the undead, and the corpses clad in black divine robes and armor—it matches down to the finest detail."
"No, that's not it. I feel it isn't," Piaget said resolutely.
"Oh?" A faint thrill stirred in Bede's heart. He sensed that Piaget was on the verge of some profound realization.
"Mr. Bede, I did paint that piece, yes, but only because that imagery happened to surface in my mind back then. My hands suddenly experienced an inexplicable urge to express it, to pour it out on canvas. You told me not to resist that feeling, to cherish it and seize hold of it.
"Yet in truth, the real designer of that painting wasn't me. I merely executed a copy. If you hadn't recognized it, I wouldn't have even known what place I was depicting.
"I am not the true creator of that piece. Before me—no, before everyone—that painting has no soul. Do you understand?"
"A soul?" Mr. Bede pressed his lips together, slightly pale with excitement. "What is a soul?"
"A soul..." Piaget paused briefly. Without spending much time deliberating, he quickly offered his answer: "For a painting, its soul should be the ability to let those who appreciate it truly understand what is being depicted."
"Yet certain schools deliberately strive to increase the difficulty of comprehension for viewers. They believe that only by doing so can they filter their audience, thereby elevating the caliber of their work."
"I find that utterly foolish. Truly, Mr. Bede, it shouldn't be like that, and I hope I never produce another painting of that sort."
"However..."
"As its initial copyist, I feel I ought to have had the best chance of deciphering it. If I cannot deconstruct a work in my own way or attain a personal understanding of it, I will burn it to ashes the moment I finish painting."
"Even if you do decipher it, what difference would it make? Whether you understand it or not, it will still come to pass. Look, you have already successfully accomplished a prophecy of the future. You should feel glad and proud."
Piaget shook his head. "What if my prophecy was merely a piece of the future all along?"
Mr. Bede fell silent.
"Mr. Bede, have you ever worried that the so-called mural prophecies might, in the very end, turn out to be wrong, ridiculous, nothing more than a false dream?"
"I haven't."
"I have."
"And so?"
"As long as it's interesting, that's enough." Piaget rolled over from his stomach onto his back. "In some matters, if you lose the outcome, winning the process is meaningless. Yet in others, the result is secondary; all that matters is enjoying the journey."
Mr. Bede mirrored Piaget's movement, turning to face upward. At this moment, he felt deeply gratified.
"Mr. Bede, there is something I've never mentioned to you."
"What is it?"
"Lately, I keep having the same dream."
"Did you dream of your wife?"
"No, not that. I keep dreaming that I walk into a palace rich with artistic grandeur."
Hearing this, Mr. Bede's eyes snapped wide open.
Piaget continued to describe: "I was overwhelmed by its sense of design. Every time I dreamt of stepping inside, I would notice new details. I know it has never changed within my dream, but... perhaps my dream simply cannot contain it in its entirety."
"What did you see inside?"
"I saw many murals, but they were all burning. I couldn't get close, so I couldn't make out what was depicted on them. Yet in the deepest part, right at the center upon a colossal wall, there was a mural that wasn't burning. Every time, I could gaze at it for a long while..."
"What was depicted on that mural?"
"A person."
"Who? A deity?"
"Not a deity. A person."
"Who was it?" Mr. Bede rolled onto his side, his eyes reddening as he gripped Piaget's hand tightly.
"I know I scrutinized it carefully for a very long time in each dream, but every time I wake up, I forget what was painted on it. I only know that the mural depicted a person—someone very familiar to me. Otherwise, there's no explaining why I would gaze at it for so long... You know that I don't care much for religious murals. The imagery of ancient deities has never excited me."
Mr. Bede's eyes narrowed suddenly. "Why are you bringing this up now?"
"I..."
Piaget fell silent.
"Were you stirred?" Mr. Bede looked toward the distant sky. "Stirred by the scene before you—no, by that person?"
"I don't know."
"You don't need to hide anything from me, Piaget. If this truly involves Karen—he is my future son-in-law, so how could I ever harm him?"
Piaget turned his head to look at him. "More than your household, more than your family, you love your faith."
Mr. Bede's expression froze.
"Still, you're right. In this moment, I felt a similar sensation. Heh, it's as if..."
Piaget trailed off again.
Both men lapsed into silence.
Mr. Bede was silent because Piaget's words had stripped away the scarred disguise over his heart, leaving him momentarily wounded and ashamed.
Piaget, meanwhile, faintly sensed a wave of dark emotion. As he recalled that feeling, he vaguely realized that whatever was depicted in that forgotten mural of his dreams was likely nothing to celebrate...
Otherwise, he wouldn't have studied it so intently, nor would he have awakened each time to find his bedding soaked with cold sweat and his throat parched.
Those were the physical manifestations of enduring prolonged, agonizing anxiety.
After a long while, when squads of the Whip of Order began moving into the area below, Mr. Bede let out a long breath and said, "You're right. I am a selfish man."
"Ah, Mr. Bede, I didn't mean to accuse you. Please don't take it to heart."
"If my heart truly held my family, I wouldn't have looked forward to painting that canvas depicting the burning of the manor back then. If I truly cared for my family's well-being, I shouldn't have taken you wandering across the world. I should have stayed in the manor, or stayed by Karen's side—by my son-in-law's side—and helped out so my daughter could be happier.
"Yet I didn't do that...
"Deep inside, I have always repelled those sentiments.
"Besides, something you probably don't know is that Karen's delay in getting married isn't because he is unwilling, or because he yearns to chase romantic freedom. He is genuinely busy; perhaps he is also in constant danger, under severe urgency, and forced to shelve certain matters for now.
"And I... I actually don't want to see my daughter marry him."
"Why, Mr. Bede?"
"Heh..." Mr. Bede let out a dry laugh.
In his mind, that afternoon resurfaced: standing in the third-floor study of a detached villa on Mink Street.
Behind the desk before him sat an old man dressed in a priest's robe. The old man had set down his teacup and cast a glance at him.
That single glance had left him barely able to breathe.
At the same time, despite his faith, his haughtiness, and his near-total emotional detachment, a surge of exultation had welled up within him—as if merely being permitted to stand there, before that old man, was a crowning moment of his life worthy of endless reminiscing and immortalizing in paint.
*"Your daughter is the granddaughter-in-law I have chosen."*
The old man's decision had held sway all the way to the present; even his grandson would never disobey or defy it.
Yet what had truly terrified him was the gaze the old man turned upon him next.
That gaze had possessed a piercing force that penetrated straight through his heart. Faintly, one could even discern a hint of mockery... No, more accurately, not mockery, but a sigh of poignant reflection.
It was directed at him; it was directed at his future.
He, a devout believer of the Church of the Mural God, had on that afternoon been prophesied by the gaze of an old Inquisitor from the Church of Order.
Furthermore, ever since Karen had entered Allen Manor, Bede had felt with every event that unfolded as though invisible chains radiated from Karen, entangling everyone around him.
Those willing to stand by his side and follow the path he indicated would be bound even tighter, receiving visible blessings in return. Those unwilling would be silently strangled by those unseen chains.
Leaving the manor to wander the world was half for Piaget's sake, and half because... he did not dare remain in that house.
He needed fresh air; he wanted freedom. Within his obsessive artistic sensibilities, the present Allen Manor was already thoroughly draped in black chains—especially that converted performance hall!
He even worried that if Karen and his daughter truly stepped into the halls of matrimony one day, then no matter whether he as a father was willing to return to that home or not, chains would wrap around his neck purely by virtue of his relationship with his daughter.
Unfortunately, Mr. Bede had never shared these bizarre, artistic inner impressions with Alfred. Had he done so, Alfred would certainly have uttered an exclamation of admiration—admiring that he had indeed been worthy of entering Master Diss's study back then.
Except, once his admiration ended, Alfred would have recast Mr. Bede's inner impressions through a brighter, far more laudatory, and divinely magnificent lens.
*What chains or shackles? That is clearly... holy light!*
*Countless people yearn and pray for it in vain, yet you dare shun it! If not for Miss Eunice's sake, I would certainly brand you with the charge of blasphemy.*
Piaget asked, "So, Mr. Bede, are you afraid of Karen?"
"I don't know. But I roughly understand the theme of that deepest mural you saw in your dream palace."
"What is the theme?"
"The final painting created by our great Mural God Rielsa before she was suppressed and fell."
"This..."
"Or rather, it was precisely because our Mural God produced that painting that she suffered suppression at the hands of the God of Order."
"Is it an end?"
According to *Light of Order*: The Mural God Rielsa offended the great God of Order, was judged an evil god, and was suppressed.
The mythic accounts of other churches, however, clearly recorded: In the late era of the previous epoch—the period of the God of Order's supremacy—the Mural God painted the end of the God of Order, and consequently suffered suppression by his hand.
"Only that painting fits. So..." Bede turned his gaze once more toward the distant sky. The "six-winged angel" had already vanished. "Is it his end?"
Diss's grandson, a believer of Order, his own son-in-law, and... the great Order...
"Did that mural prophesy Karen's end? But Karen is still so young. What I saw should be a painting from the past. Back then, Karen didn't even exist..."
"And you aren't the Mural God of old either, are you?"
Piaget froze for a moment, then smiled—a brilliant, radiant smile.
"If that's the case, then I have all the more motivation to keep wandering with you. Because I want to paint that picture. If it truly is the end, I will bring it to Karen to see."
"I suspect that by the time you paint it, it may no longer be suitable to show him."
"No, he is my friend, Mr. Bede. The sole love of my life was Linda, and the best friend I have now in this life is Karen. He once helped me gather Linda's ashes and placed the scalding urn into my hands with his own.
"He was a friend Linda introduced to me. If possible, I am willing to help him at any cost.
"All right, Mr. Bede, I think we can leave now. Count the point coupons in your wallet and see where they can buy us teleportation array tickets to. Preferably not too far; I don't want to arrive only to find we don't have enough coupons left for a hotel."
"All right."
Both men climbed to their feet almost simultaneously. Just then, a squad of the Whip of Order happened to pass below and spotted them, but upon seeing the black blankets draped over their shoulders, the squad immediately looked away.
Piaget raised a hand and shouted with laughter, "Haha! A new journey is about to begin!"
***
"Look, our hero has arrived!"
"Let us raise our cups and drink to the hero of our last victory!"
"Dinas, put away that scythe of yours. I even think you ought to yield your seat as the God of War to him, hahaha!"
"If he wants it, I can gift this scythe to him. I can even feel the scythe's affinity and yearning for him."
"Order, do you want it? Nod quickly to Dinas and take his scythe, hahaha!"
"Yes, tell him you want it!"
"I want to see Dinas weep! I want to see our God of War shed tears! Haha, I can hardly wait!"
In the Great Hall of the Gods, the Chief Gods sat on the highest tier, while below them were the seats of the other deities, arranged in strict hierarchy.
As the host of gods gathered here for the banquet, the celestial canopy above manifested divine wonders drawn by their interwoven laws.
Wind and rain halted here; thunder and lightning entwined with divine fire; the sun and moon shared the sky at once... and radiant light illuminated everything below.
The camp of the God of Light had just won a victory, successfully reversing their prior disadvantage against the Eternal faction.
The God of Order walked into the banquet hall. His figure was stern and cold, and the moment he appeared, he seemed utterly out of place amidst the surroundings.
Artemis, Goddess of the Moon, rose voluntarily from her seat, intending to usher this newly risen deity forward. When she spoke, her voice was like the moon whispering tenderly beside one's ear:
"Order, the great Light has issued a divine decree: from this day forward, you may take a seat among us. Congratulations on becoming an acknowledged Chief God!"
The deities seated below looked up with envious gazes.
The seat of a Chief God was a symbol of absolute power, and even more, a mark of recognition.
It also meant that starting today, he would wield far greater privileges in this world!
If he wished to establish his own church, his faith would be granted a baseline territorial foundation for proselytizing, sparing him the struggle of clawing up through the margins.
Artemis sought to wrap her arm around Order's, but Order merely lifted his eyes toward the vacant principal throne situated beneath the blazing sun above. The God of Light had not attended this victory banquet.
Then, Order turned around. Ignoring the Moon Goddess's overture, he walked down the steps, pace by steady pace.
He had attended the banquet. Now, he was leaving.
The clamorous, bustling hall fell abruptly silent. Everyone instinctively watched Order's departing silhouette.
"It seems our newly minted Chief God isn't easy to get along with, heh. Come, let us celebrate among ourselves!"
The God of Samsara raised his cup, and the banquet's atmosphere ignited once more.
The God of War reached down, stroked the Scythe of War at his side, and mocked himself: "Heh, look at that. He didn't even deign to spare you a second glance."
The Scythe of War grew furious, swaying back and forth.
"All right, stow your foul temper. If you have the guts, go strike him yourself, haha."
Artemis placed a finger between her lips, sucking on it lightly as a playful smile touched the corners of her mouth. "How intriguing."
The God of Order descended the terrace, passing the seats of the lesser deities. The gods on both sides bowed their heads to show respect to the newly ascended Chief God.
Continuing further down brought him to the performance grounds. The Queen of the Dragon Race was performing an exquisite dance, adding a touch of sensual elegance to the feast. She was the lofty Mother of the Dragon Race, yet here, she could only be defined as a dancer indulging dragonkind's wanton nature.
A young dragon lay curled in a corner, glaring coldly at the center of the dance floor, its eyes filled with suppressed fury.
Yet when the Mother of the Dragon Race turned toward it mid-dance, her gaze tightened slightly, forcing the whelp to shut its eyes and conceal its disrespectful stare.
Along the periphery, numerous attendants bustled back and forth, serving the finest vintage wines and most exquisite delicacies to the great deities.
A strand of divine consciousness brushed toward the God of Order, instantly triggering a backlash. Among a group of painters currently depicting the day's spectacle, a young girl let out a cry of agony, collapsed against her easel, and fell to her knees prostrate on the ground.
She had just dared to proactively probe the great new Chief God with her consciousness.
The God of Order paused in his steps and looked toward her.
"I have sinned, Chief God," the woman confessed in repentance.
The God of Order's gaze fell upon the canvas on the floor. Upon it, the silhouette of his form had already begun to take shape.
"What is your name?"
"My name is Rielsa. I am a copyist who paints for the gods."
To either side, painters from various other races all fell prostrate, pleading for mercy together on behalf of one of their own who had dared to blaspheme a Chief God.
"You wish to paint me?"
"Yes, Chief God." The girl summoned her courage, lifted her head, and looked toward the God of Order. "I wish to paint you, because I feel that you are very special here."
"Then paint."
Everyone around let out a long sigh of relief at those words. It appeared the Chief God was not angered.
A smile appeared on the girl's face. Clutching the drawing paper tightly, she made a hopeful request:
"Great Chief God, if one day I manage to finish painting you, may I present the canvas before you... as a... a gift to you?!"
The God of Order did not turn back, yet his voice drifted over:
"You may."
The girl cried out toward the towering, receding figure:
"Please rest assured, I will never disappoint you! I will certainly produce a painting that brings you joy and satisfaction!"
Chapter 686