Tomb!

"Ha, you lost again!" Judia lifted her chin, looking down at Borg, whom she had just knocked to the ground, with the air of a victor. "Yes, I lost." Borg stood up, patted the dust off his clothes first, and then checked the frostbite on his arms. Facing this girl, he was already used to losing; a familiar, wry smile hung on his face. For the past half year or so, Old Patriarch Anderson had been deeply depressed about one thing: although the young master of the Inmeles family had revived the once-crumbling Allen Manor, and everything was moving in a positive direction, with family members enjoying far better cultivation resources than in the past... bloodline talent really was not something that could be made up for easily. Especially every time he saw that black cat—the ancestor whose cat portrait hung in the study—a thick wave of shame would wash over Old Anderson. How high-spirited that ancestor had been in his day! And how glorious the family had been back then! Old Anderson had once read a diary left by a male ancestor from that era, where the man had written with deep self-reproach: "Today was the core family meeting to discuss our upcoming development plans. I was unable to attend because only members of Rank 6 or higher in the family faith system are qualified to enter the meeting hall. Alas, forty years old, and I am still stuck at Rank 5, unable to break through. I am such a piece of trash." Only Rank 6 and above could attend core family meetings; back then, an ancestor at Rank 5 lamented that he was useless trash. Old Anderson used to sigh frequently: if this ancestor could have lived two centuries longer, he would have found that Rank 5 was enough to become Patriarch directly. After all, before Karen came to Allen Manor, the highest-ranking clan member in the entire manor was only at Rank 3, trembling in fear before the backlash of a former servant family. Although his granddaughter Eunice had awakened the family's faith system at the cost of sleeping for six months, waking up at Rank 5, Old Anderson no longer considered Eunice a purely "Allen" clan member. Once married, her surname would become "Inmeles." Furthermore, this granddaughter of his did not seem to care much about cultivation. Despite possessing exceptional talent, she preferred spending her time on "meaningless" things. Yet Old Anderson did not dare say much about it. After all, his granddaughter had fulfilled her "family mission" splendidly; for Allen Manor today, the most crucial matter was ensuring that "Young Master Karen" visited home often. Thus, at present, the only ones who truly stood out as the next generation's cultivation talents were a mongrel and a bastard. Judia was the mongrel with royal blood. She never hid her tangled lineage, much like a soccer player holding multiple citizenships who ultimately chose to play for Allen Manor. Borg was the child of a distant cadet branch and a prostitute. Old Anderson knew very well that this boy harbored deep-seated hatred toward the Allen family—hatred that no amount of compensation after the fact could ever truly heal. Judia rested her hands on her hips and said proudly, "You could never beat me, not in a million years." Her royal blood and the legacy of Count Rekar gave Judia an immense psychological edge over the illegitimate Borg. Just then, a figure dropped from a nearby tree, hanging upside down with the tip of one foot hooked over a branch. It was Philomena. "Ah!" Judia jumped in fright. She had not noticed at all that someone was lurking right beside them while she and Borg sparred. Philomena held a fountain pen in her left hand and a notebook in her right. Alfred had spent two days giving Vic and Leon "preparatory lessons," after which he called all the believers back to Allen Manor to begin this term's study and exchange session. Having just finished half a day of the study session, Philomena was currently writing her "reflection report" according to Alfred's instructions. A hand accustomed to gripping a blade felt painfully clumsy and stiff when holding a pen. Yet she did not dare disobey, because Alfred had stated that everyone's reflections would be submitted for Karen's perusal. She rather missed Richard. If Richard were here, he could have ghostwritten it for her; even if he couldn't, he could have asked Jerry for help. "Hey, who are you?!" After pulling back a distance, Judia pointed at Philomena and yelled. Borg froze for a moment, quickly guessing the woman's identity, as he was responsible for relaying messages between the manor and Young Master Karen. However, Borg said nothing. Still hanging upside down, Philomena looked at Judia and said, "He hid his strength from you." "What?" Judia looked taken aback. "You can't beat him. He lost to you on purpose." "Bullshit!" Judia flared with anger. "Not only did he hide his strength, he purposely refrained from attacking your openings. He held back three times. Because of that, your sparring will only teach you to keep ignoring your flaws—flaws that might cause you to lose your life in the future during a battle you should have won easily." "You..." Judia pointed at Philomena. "What kind of nonsense are you spewing, you bitch... Aaaah!" *Crack!* The finger pointing at Philomena was bent back at a grotesque angle. Philomena dropped to the ground, her expression calm. Shocked, Judia stared at her snapped finger, backing away as she roared, "You beast, how dare you do this to me—" *Whoosh!* The distance she had put between them turned into an instant joke. Before Judia could even register what was happening, the older girl had seized her by the throat with one hand, hoisting her clean off the ground. "First, pointing at someone while speaking is an impolite offense." "You..." "Second..." Philomena tilted her head slightly. "Second, I haven't thought of one yet." *Bang!* Judia was slammed into the dirt, creating a shallow crater. Her clothes tore, and blood streamed from her head. Then Philomena hoisted Judia again, tossed her into the air, and followed through with a kick. *Smack!* Judia went flying like a struck golf ball. Before Judia hit the ground, Philomena appeared beside her, reached out to grab her hair, and yanked her back with a swoosh. During the rapid yank, the front of Judia's body made sustained, intimate contact with the soft turf. By the time Philomena let go, Judia was collapsed in a mixture of mud and blood, looking barely human. Judia was terrified. She had just been pummeled like a punching bag, unable to fight back in the slightest. The woman's speed and power were far beyond her comprehension. "I haven't fully vented my anger yet, but I know killing you would mean writing an extra explanatory report, so I held back." It was a blunt statement that not only crushed Judia's confidence in strength, but also trampled her status in reality. In truth, this girl who had grown up among royalty had always possessed a terrible temper—one could even say she had severe psychological issues. After entering Allen Manor, Old Anderson had treated her with great indulgence. In the manor, no one else dared provoke Karen, yet she had dared to initiate provocations several times. Although Karen had slapped and battered her down before, every time she saw him, she would still put on a defiant "I'm not backing down" attitude. She feared Karen, yet she couldn't resist clinging to that laughable veneer of courage. Karen, for his part, had never taken her to heart and paid her little mind. Today, however, she had run into Philomena—a woman with an even worse temper. That was generally the end that awaited most arrogant people: in the end, they would inevitably encounter someone more arrogant, with harder fists, to teach them a lesson. Besides, Philomena had truly intended to kill her. If her grandmother were resurrected, she could attest to that fact—Philomena hadn't hesitated when killing her either. ... "Family members still need discipline when it's called for." "Yes, Young Master, I understand." Standing beside Karen by the French window, Old Anderson had witnessed the entire sequence of events below. Cold sweat seeped from the old patriarch's forehead, but he didn't dare wipe it away, as this was the first time Karen had voiced dissatisfaction with the manor. "I will have Eunice gradually take over..." "No need," Karen refused flatly. "Unless she asks for it herself, let her live according to her own wishes." "Yes, Young Master." *Knock, knock...* Alfred arrived. Old Anderson immediately excused himself. Once out the door, he pulled out a handkerchief and began wiping his sweat incessantly. "Young Master, Regional Chief Sus officially steps down the day after tomorrow. He doesn't plan to hold a farewell banquet." "Does 'doesn't plan to hold a banquet' mean hosting a small, simple gathering instead?" "Precisely. When the Chief's secretary communicated with me, he conveyed the Chief's wish: he wants to eat a meal cooked by your own hands one more time." "I understand." Sus wanted a quiet departure, gathering with his close circle for one last farewell before leaving. Karen turned around, walked over to the sofa, and sat down. "Then we'll head back tomorrow." Vacations were always fleeting. "Aside from that, there are three matters I need to report to you. First, the Desert Church's civil war has officially begun. Bloody clashes have broken out across multiple holy lands, slaughtering each other as heretics. The scale is gradually widening. Chief Bern's attendant conveyed the Chief's thoughts to me. He mentioned that Order might form a mediation delegation to intervene and mediate. If our region is granted a quota, Chief Bern wishes to recommend you, Young Master." "Mm." Karen nodded. Whenever something good came up, Bern thought of him, because Karen was still young and had the potential to break through bottlenecks, whereas Bern himself was advanced in age and harbored no hopes of further promotion. Of course, such favors required Karen's reciprocation: continued, intertwined cooperation between the Whip of Order and the Regional Administrative Office. "Second, news came from Richard: Presiding Judge Gaspol herself has arrived in Yorktown." "So soon?" Karen was somewhat surprised. Sus hadn't officially stepped down yet; a successor shouldn't rush over so impatiently, as it would embarrass Sus and make her look overly eager. By right, since Sus was leaving the day after tomorrow, it would be most appropriate for Presiding Judge Gaspol to arrive about three days afterward to assume office. "Yes, I found it quite hasty as well. In principle, Presiding Judge Gaspol shouldn't do something so abrupt, so I suspect her early arrival might be for God's Son Mavaglio." Karen lightly tapped the handle of his teacup with his fingertips. "Perhaps this is her deliberate way of signaling to me, to Bern, and to the existing structure we've built, that she's only here to date and prepare for marriage, with no interest in power struggles." "Wise insight, Young Master. That is indeed possible." "Still, who can say for sure?" Karen shook his head. "After all, she doesn't seem like the type to settle down, marry peacefully, and enjoy domestic life. Perhaps she's already brewing a series of maneuvers to upend the arrangements we quietly settled with Sus." "Young Master, the third matter is that your university admission notice has been issued. Within the next two weeks, you need to travel to the Order Church University in the Dinge Region to complete your registration. However, because you are enrolled while holding active office, you only need to fulfill a certain number of credit hours once registered. The hours aren't long, and the timeline is generous." "Mm. I think I should complete the registration before Gaspol officially takes office." "Indeed. That way, when you meet Presiding Judge Gaspol officially, you can address her as 'Senior Sister.'" This was not flattery, but a political statement demonstrating that Karen had no wish to clash with her and was even willing to proactively align himself with the faction behind her. Karen did not mind having a factional label slapped on him; he was an enormous label in his own right. Shifting allegiances served only to reduce pressure and conflict, buying time to grow. "Young Master, there is one more minor matter. God's Son Salayina of the Moon God Church has sent an inquiry regarding the treatment of their exchange priests." Evidently, Salayina had noticed as well: whether in living conditions, cultivation resources, or job assignments, this batch of young Moon God Church priests had clearly been marginalized. The Dark Moon warriors had already been organized into Whip of Order squads to execute missions, while the young priests from the Moon God Church had been dispatched to various grassroots departments to run errands, with quite a few even assigned to the information desks on the ground floor of the Church Affairs Building. "Did this month's payment come through?" Karen asked. "It did. She wouldn't dare halt it, fearing their treatment would degrade even further if she did." "There's no need for us to reply to her inquiry. Let Presiding Judge Gaspol handle it once she officially assumes office. After all, the proceeds were shared up and down the chain." Karen hadn't pocketed the income alone; it had been laundered into the headquarters' welfare system. Gaspol couldn't possibly slash everyone's perks the moment she stepped into office. "Has that matter been scheduled?" Karen asked. "The appointment is set. Ashley's parents are ready to perform the surgery at any time, and Muri brought over the surgical plan today. I have conducted a preliminary review." "Any findings?" "Ashley's parents thoughtfully marked several difficulties and risk points in the operation, hoping we might petition higher authorities to allocate higher-ranked researchers, technicians, and physicians to assist. However, this would inevitably run the risk of exposing you during the procedure, Young Master. We cannot control higher-ranked researchers and technicians, and their discerning eyes might see right through our disguise. Therefore, I suggest summoning Luoya sometime soon. The containment space holds countless divine artifacts and artifact spirits, some dating back to ancient eras. If Luoya can find artifact spirits with relevant expertise, having them adjust and optimize the plan should yield far better results." "I'll summon Luoya tonight, then." Karen didn't want to delay. "Still, Young Master, no matter how much we upgrade the preparations, the risks remain. And the symbiosis contract ties directly to your life." Alfred still wanted to urge caution. Karen shook his head and said: "But Purr can't wait any longer... to turn back into a human." ... Because the primary color of Order clerical robes was black, wearing them inevitably gave off a cold, solemn impression. Yet there were people in this world whose aura had nothing to do with what they wore. Mavaglio felt that his fiancée was precisely such a person. A white blouse, a coffee-colored skirt that fell past her knees, let-down hair, bracelets, earrings, and even a coat of lipstick. It should have been the kind of exquisite, stylish attire of an urban white-collar professional that spurred imaginations, yet it still gave off an icy chill. It was like the same dress: worn by one person, it looked like a wedding greeter; worn by another, a funeral director. Gaspol sat on the sofa, flipping through the thick stack of documents before her, which detailed the progress of various operations across the Yorktown Region over the past year. Mavaglio sat on a chair opposite the sofa, knees pressed together, hands resting on his lap. From time to time, he swallowed, his throat making quiet gulping sounds—the very picture of a misbehaving schoolboy sitting uneasily before his head teacher. His fiancée had just shown up like this: arrived at his residence, knocked, walked in, sat down, and worked, without saying a single word to him the entire time. Mavaglio wished he could contact his only good friend, Karen, to come rescue him. Even if they talked about work—no, even if they started arguing or brawling right now over official authority—it would be ten times better than sitting here alone enduring this cold violence. In short, he was suffering. He felt less like a God's Son and more like a little son. When dinner time arrived, Gaspol produced two bottles of energy potion from her pocket. She set one across from her, unscrewed the cap of the other, drank it down in a single gulp, and continued warming up for her work. Mavaglio: *Damn it, does she even skip meals on a daily basis?!* After sitting there for another hour, Mavaglio finally couldn't take it anymore. He stood up and said: "I'm going to sleep." His department was still being assembled, so he had no pressing work on hand for the moment. Gaspol gave no reaction. "Don't you have a place to stay?" Mavaglio asked. Gaspol frowned slightly, clearly displeased that her work had been interrupted. She raised her head and looked at Mavaglio. Mavaglio's heart skipped a beat. An image immediately popped into his mind: a black python coiled up, looking down on a little white mouse. Most of Karen's impressions of Presiding Judge Gaspol came from their encounters in the tribunal. Perhaps even Karen himself had never realized that Gaspol in the tribunal was already the most "amiable" version of herself. "Go to sleep if you want." "Aren't you leaving?" Mavaglio asked. "I am your fiancée. Having arrived here, I should stay with you. Staying elsewhere would look bad." "With you here, I can't sleep." Mavaglio was convinced that once he walked into the bedroom, seeing the light seeping in from the living room would give him the agonizing feeling of resting while his mother was still toiling away for the family's livelihood. "We are only engaged, not married. A premarital pregnancy would reflect poorly on you as well." "What on earth are you talking about?!" Did she think he wanted to sleep with her?! "Once married, we need to have a child as quickly as possible. I will order a temperature-controlled incubator syringe. When the time comes, you can extract it yourself and draw it in; I'll inject it while working. That way, it won't interrupt my work, and efficiency will remain high." Mavaglio: "..." The God's Son instantly recalled what Karen had told him: *Why would a pig farm ever let prime breeding stock escape?* *Karen, you never would have imagined this! I've been stripped of even a stud's most basic rights! She wants me to use a syringe?!* The God's Son's fury flared up completely. He would not permit his dignity as a God's Son to be trampled like this. Yet just as he was about to spit out something far blunter and nastier, he remembered Karen's other words: *Perhaps she rejects this marriage even more than you do.* "Heh... heh heh..." Mavaglio let out a laugh. Gaspol looked at him with slight confusion. "Being engaged to me must feel like an injustice to you. I know you probably look down on me, but neither you nor I can ask to break this engagement, right?" "Yes, that's correct." "How about this: outside, we play along. We'll act as fiancé and fiancée, and after marriage, like a proper husband and wife. At home, we won't interfere with each other's work and career. As you know, once my department is set up, I'll be very busy too." "And then?" "I have only one condition. I don't need you to treat me like a God's Son, and I certainly don't need you to treat me like a husband. But since we're forced to live under the same roof, we should at least show each other the basic respect of flatmates sharing an apartment." "I understand your meaning. I reflect on my attitude just now and apologize." Gaspol stood up and offered a half-bow in apology. "I also reflect on my attitude since you walked in the door." Mavaglio bowed in return. "Well, I'm heading to sleep. The guest room is at the far end; that will be your room from now on." "All right." Mavaglio let out a long breath and walked toward his bedroom. As he pushed open the door to step inside, a voice drifted from the living room behind him: "Good night." Mavaglio looked back. Seeing her still buried in her work, she suddenly seemed a little different than before—she almost looked somewhat delicate and lovely. Stepping into the bedroom and closing the door, Mavaglio slapped himself on the forehead. "Damn it, I'm hallucinating." Soon, however, Mavaglio realized this was no hallucination. His eyes began turning white, a gold-bordered starburst pattern surfaced beneath his feet, and a halo of light radiated from his body. When he first inherited the legacy, he had dreamed nearly every night, constantly digesting memory fragments of that "Lord." Later, they had all but ceased. Yet now, a new trigger had arisen, allowing him to receive another fragment of that "Lord's" memories. It was a voice—a conversation between two people: "How does married life feel?" "Tyrannus, do you want the truth?" "Let's hear it." "Our God awakened me, allowing me to revive and see this world once more; after getting married, I feel like I've lain back down in a tomb."