Outbreak of Divine Pollution

"Where are last night's leftovers?" Mavaglio asked Gaspol as he walked out of the kitchen toward the living room where she was working. Gaspol answered without looking up, "I got hungry working late last night, so I ate them." "All of it?" "Yeah." "Wait, you couldn't even leave me a little?" "Sorry, I didn't think about that." Gaspol looked up at Mavaglio. "I'm still not used to having a roommate." Her answer was very sincere, which meant: I didn't intentionally want to ignore your existence; I just haven't learned how not to ignore you yet. Mavaglio walked over to the coffee table. Beneath it sat two trash cans filled with pig trotters and chicken feet—Xili had prepared braised dishes for them the night before. Seeing this, Mavaglio bent down and began tidying up the trash cans. Gaspol's expression grew a little awkward, and she said, "Sorry..." "It's fine. I know you're not used to cleaning up by yourself." "No, I know how. I just wanted to finish my work first." "A good environment is necessary for work. Do you like working in a pile of garbage?" "Of course not." The Divine Son finished taking out the trash. The reason he hadn't wanted servants when he lived here previously was that having accompanied his grandfather on travels, he possessed basic self-care skills—at the very least, he wouldn't let himself live in a pigsty. Clearly, his fiancée was not like that. Gaspol felt somewhat unaccustomed to the current dynamic. She was a workaholic, and she resented yet had to accept this marriage—all true. But after all, she wasn't someone severely withdrawn like Philomena; she possessed social competence, so she knew this situation wasn't right. The Divine Son said, "How about this: from now on, I'll clean the place once a day. As for chores... there shouldn't be much anyway, so I'll handle them." "What about me, then? What do I need to do?" "Just be a little more mindful of keeping things tidy. You don't have to do the rest. Oh, and if there's good food, remember to leave some for me when you eat." Mavaglio didn't make this decision out of any emotional warmth; it was purely that the Divine Son himself was somewhat of a neat freak. "Understood. So, no servants then?" "I still don't plan on hiring one. After eating the food made by Karen's maid, I don't think I can stomach anyone else's cooking. You might not know, but in Wien, a cook's skill is judged by how thoroughly they ruin food with bean paste." "The food she makes is indeed delicious," Gaspol conceded. "But she is Karen's maid. Even though we'll live very close after moving, constantly using someone else's maid seems a bit improper." "It's fine. All it takes is thick skin." Mavaglio pinched his own cheek. "Between friends, there's no need to stand on ceremony." "All right." "Oh, right, I'm heading to the headquarters building in a bit to make basic preparations before the research." "Go ahead." Mavaglio stood still. Gaspol looked up again, slightly puzzled. "I've seen it in movies and novels—for a married couple, when the husband leaves the house, the wife should at least see him off." Gaspol said, "We're at home." "Yes, I know we're at home, but don't you plan to rehearse? Otherwise, how can we guarantee our performance when we're outside?" Gaspol stood up, walked to the entrance, opened the door, and looked at Mavaglio. Mavaglio smiled and nodded, saying, "Honey, I'm off to—" "Blegh!" Mavaglio had originally meant to make a joke. When he was changing the trash bags earlier, he had noticed that beneath her cold, workaholic exterior, his fiancée was actually slightly sensitive inside. Like a fierce-looking female falcon that was remarkably intelligent. Fine, since you gave me a syringe, I'll treat it like a water gun and squirt it in your face. Yet he was only halfway through his mischief when he bent over and retched violently. No matter how one looked at it, this went far beyond a joke; it looked more as if addressing her as "honey" had nauseated him to the point of vomiting. However, Gaspol was no ordinary woman. She immediately noticed a golden insignia flickering between Mavaglio's eyebrows. "What's wrong?" At that moment, she naturally supported her fiancé—after all, a loyal follower of Order would certainly protect a "precious asset" of the church. "Blegh..." Mavaglio continued dry-heaving, then snapped his head up toward a certain direction, gasping for breath as he choked out: "Filthy... filthy... filthy divine pollution..." ... "Woof, woof, woof!" Kevin hopped frantically in place, his barking growing increasingly shrill. If personified, he was like someone stomping his feet over and over, yelling: "Disaster! Disaster! Disaster!" Xili, who had taken the leash intending to bring the children and pets home, was yanked off her feet by Kevin and tumbled to the ground. Little Kanna stepped forward, grabbed the leash with one hand, and stood as steady as a mountain. Meanwhile, the golden retriever circled little Kanna while barking, moving like the hand of a clock. Purr sprawled atop little Kanna's head, watching the frenzied Kevin, and asked, "Kanna, did you sense anything?" Little Kanna shook her head. "Looks like your rebellious Dragon God inheritance still has plenty of room to be tapped, meow." ... Ankara Hotel, guest room. In front of the floor-to-ceiling window, Salayina braced both hands against the sofa, her expression twisted in agony. Within her eyes, the shadow of another woman surfaced. "What's happening?" asked the Divine Son of the Moon God Church. She could not understand why that fragment of Ankara sealed inside her body would suddenly awaken out of nowhere. Immediately after, Salayina spoke again, answering in an entirely different tone: "Pollution... divine pollution..." "Is it the effect of a divine artifact?" "No, far more severe than that." "What on earth is going on?" "I don't know. I only sense divine pollution. It is brewing, it is about to be born, and it is very likely to lose control." "What is the cost if it loses control?" "A catastrophe." Salayina gritted her teeth and cursed, "Never mind, those dogs from the Church of Order should deal with it!" ... In an ordinary motel on the outskirts of Yorktown, Miliwen lay in a room littered with empty bottles. Drunk moments ago, she suddenly curled up and began vomiting. Piles of foul sludge splattered out, and a thick, sour stench instantly flooded the room. "Ah..." Miliwen scrambled to her feet, stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed water against her face with all her might. During the encirclement operation, Neo had shown mercy and let her leave. Yet instead of returning directly to the Abyssal Sea, she had lingered behind and severed all communication with her church. Were it not for her exalted status as a Divine Son, the Abyssal Church would likely have branded her a traitor. Though what she had done was already indistinguishable from treason. She felt utterly lost, unsure of where to go, using special techniques to suppress her own consciousness so the alcohol could numb her. Yet now, an agonizing wave of nausea was tearing through her mind. She looked up into the mirror, her hair drenched, a trickle of blood starting to run from her nose. "What in the world is it... that's so disgusting..." ... Outside the karst cave, the arrival of the garrison knights had brought the entire perimeter under firm control. Coupled with the overt presence of personnel from the Whip of Order and the Regional Administrative Office, the Order priests guarding the cave entrance adopted a cooperative posture and pulled back inward. They did not abandon their defense to let outsiders in, but they certainly would not launch an unprovoked attack either. In truth, the personnel on the perimeter had no intention of forcing an entry. Bishop Delon had led his subordinates to lay down one array after another. At first, they were basic defensive arrays, though from the perspective of those deploying them, their orientation was reversed. Then, as Bishop Delon used a guiding array to activate the entire sequence of previously laid arrays, they quickly resonated with one another. From the outside, it looked as though rings of iridescent bubbles had formed, completely enveloping the cave mouth. This was not the end. Driven by the rapid operation of the Key to the Rubik's Cube and the combined strength of all the formation masters around him, Bishop Delon let out a resonant chant: "Forbidden: Throne of Order!" In the next instant, the illusory silhouette of the Throne of Order manifested in the sky above, exerting terrifying pressure. Though it merely hovered for now, it could come crashing down at any second. Throughout the continuous deployment of arrays, nearly every formation master had consumed two doses of spirit potion, Bishop Delon included. Once everything was completed, aside from a small number tasked with maintaining array operation, most sat down to recover through meditation. Though somewhat drained, the old man made a point of turning his head to look at his grandson. Standing side by side with the Chief, his grandson was unmistakably prominent. Karen offered a timely smile and a nod in return, conveying his admiration for the old man's enduring vigor. Once the old man turned back, satisfied, to resume overseeing the array, Karen finally responded to what Bern had told him moments earlier: "You knew about this long ago too, didn't you?" "Not only did I know early on, but during preliminary experiments, I even lent a hand." Bern did not shy away from his checkered past, for he had indeed operated on that darker side before. "So our operation was arranged as well?" "Yes. They were worried that advance notice might cause us to bungle things, delay the experiment's schedule, or place psychological strain on the researchers. That's why they waited until the final, critical moment to send an urgent directive for us to seal the area." "And the people inside the laboratory? Aren't they worried about putting psychological pressure on them now?" "The final experiment is down to the very last step. Never mind a lockdown conducted by personnel from our own church—even if an outside church force were storming in right now, they would grit their teeth and push through to complete it. "The people from the Church of Principles and our own church involved in this experiment possess the purity and fanaticism of scientists—the sort who would gladly die just to catch a single glimpse of the final result. Do you understand?" "I understand." "Yeah." Bern rolled his neck slightly. "Still, I truly despise these special independent divisions. When command lines are blurred, it leaves us regional authorities at a loss on how to coordinate, let alone how to clean up their messes." "That is unavoidable." "It's much better now than before. I believe the High Priest will soon rectify this issue." Though Bern had never stated it outright, Karen knew he was a supporter of the High Priest, as their operating styles were very much alike. Karen's thoughts drifted back to Mr. Luther. He had told Neo earlier that while he could try to do something, he feared his intervention might cause everything to collapse into total ruin. Now, he no longer had to agonize over that, for he already stood on the front line of defense against the catastrophe. Yet, even Karen himself did not know whether he wished for this mad experiment to succeed or fail. ... "Our efforts today will never be in vain! Our cries today will never fade! We must secure a truly equal and just society for ourselves and for our descendants! "My dear comrades, now is our time to march forward! We will show Wien and the Imperial Government our true spirit! We will make everyone understand that hair color is nothing more than hair color! "We are human! We live beneath the same blue sky, in the same city! We..." Bang! A gunshot rang out. Steel pellets from a shotgun struck Mr. Luther as he delivered his impassioned speech upon the platform. At first, there was no sign of anything amiss with Mr. Luther. He remained standing, as if he had not yet registered what had happened, until he looked down at his chest. Then his body began to stagger, he collapsed into a seated position, and finally tumbled flat onto the ground. "Mr. Luther!" "Mr. Luther!" At first, the crowd was paralyzed by the gunshot. Only when Mr. Luther fell did his surrounding supporters realize what had occurred. Had the leader they followed truly fallen just like that? "He's the assassin!" "Don't let him get away!" Two purple-haired men seized the assassin and rallied the crowd to attack him. People swarmed forward with fists and boots, while the two purple-haired men who had shouted first drew daggers and stabbed into the assassin's body repeatedly. Once other enraged supporters pushed in to take their places, the two began shifting toward the perimeter. From the scuffle, much of the purple dye had rubbed off their hair. Their mission accomplished, they tossed the daggers into a trash can and melted into the alleys. Surrounding journalists frantically snapped photographs of the madness. They tried to photograph Mr. Luther's condition after the shooting as well, but could not push through the crowd. The supporters had descended into frenzy, shouting and weeping. Mr. Luther was their hope. Others on the platform moved to lift Mr. Luther and rush him to the hospital. Through the gaps in the crowd, one could see him being carried up, his arm hanging limp at his side. "Where's the ambulance?! Did anyone call an ambulance?!" "Dispatch said the parade route is blocked, so they can't get through!" "Damn it! Our parade wouldn't completely block traffic—those were Mr. Luther's explicit instructions! How could an ambulance not get through?!" "What about the police?! Did anyone report it?!" "The precinct said it's not appropriate for them to intervene right now!" "Mr. Luther has no pulse! His heart stopped!" News of civil rights leader Mr. Luther's assassination spread outward from Yorktown across all of Wien by wire and telephone. The demonstrations prepared across every city in Wien quickly dissolved into widespread wailing. When hope is lost, people turn to rage. Soon, sporadic acts of vandalism, looting, and rioting erupted as an outlet for their fury. Everyone knew that once the firewood of anger was ignited, it would be difficult to put out. Ahead lay the fiercest phase of racial conflict Wien had ever seen. ... "It has begun!" Inside the karst cave, the altar began operating at ten times its previous speed. An opening split in its center, and an elevated platform rose up. Resting on the platform was a bubble, and inside the bubble, an infant was being nurtured. "Infant" here referred to a state of being, a process of emergence from nothingness. The infant had purple hair and a red neck. His face was hideous and contorted, yet at this moment, it began gradually shifting. Anyone familiar with Mr. Luther would have noticed the infant's face transforming into Mr. Luther's likeness. "Whoa!" "Hahahaha!" "Praise the God of Order!" "Praise the God of Principles!" Everyone inside the laboratory erupted into cheers. For now, the experiment had secured a successful start, for they had already channeled that mysterious and elusive power. On the command platform: "It succeeded, didn't it?" "Yes. Care for a drink?" "Sure." "I brought a bottle of... Wait, what's happening?" A coarse hide began spreading across the infant's skin, marked by black folds resembling the hide of a black boar. At that moment, the infant's eyes slowly cracked open. The power of the altar and the divine artifacts surged to suppress and counter the infant's transformation. Yet suddenly, the infant's lips twitched slightly, as if speaking. At first it was faint, and with the altar acting as a barrier, no one could hear it. Soon, however, as the infant's lips trembled faster and faster, a rustling whisper emanated outward. The sound grew from faint to loud. Where it had previously resonated only from the altar, it suddenly surfaced beside the ears of every person in the laboratory without warning, as though the infant were perched on their shoulders, whispering directly into their ears. In the vast laboratory, all other sounds vanished, leaving only the infant's voice. Everyone froze in place, including the two commanders on the platform. No one knew how much time had passed. Finally, The first person broke down, falling to their knees, their fingernails gouging into their own face, ripping the skin away; Next, someone began tearing at their own tongue, ripping it clean out; Someone used both hands to gouge out their own eyeballs; In an eerie silence, as if feeling no pain whatsoever, they engaged in a collective spree of self-mutilation. They had once been high-and-mighty priests. Those permitted to enter this laboratory and participate in this project were the elite of both churches. Yet now, a truly bizarre, bloody horror was unfolding. They had made flawless preparations in advance, deploying three divine artifacts and expending resources to an absurd degree, yet none of it seemed to have made the slightest difference. The deputy commander from the Church of Principles was pulling his own intestines from his abdomen. Having lost most of his faculties, the only thought surfacing in his mind was a line he had once read from the notes of his master's master: "Because this is an era where the gods do not walk among us, even lambs attempt to take a seat at the vacant banquet table." Continuing to drag out his own entrails, the deputy commander stared at the hellish carnage below. His mouth fell open, yet no sound came out: The lambs forgot what kind of change in identity it signified when they were placed upon the table. ... "Hiss..." Karen drew a sharp, deep breath, instinctively pressing a hand to his forehead, a trace of agony crossing his features. Chief Bern beside him noticed and asked, "Uncomfortable?" Karen shook his head. "It's fine. Probably an old injury flaring up. A little rest and I'll be fine." "Get it checked more often. You're still young—don't let an ailment take root, or it will hinder your future prospects." "Thank you, I will." Karen had no idea that at this very moment, every Divine Son within Yorktown was experiencing a profound, visceral nausea. He wasn't nauseous. He was hungry. Inexplicably, his hunger addiction had been stirred at this exact moment. The overpowering hunger caused Karen to briefly lose his composure. Seeing this, Alfred immediately produced Thunder cigarettes, offering one to Bern first. Bern took it, and after Alfred lit it for the Chief, he handed another to his young master. Taking a drag, Karen felt his symptoms ease slightly. Through the haze of smoke, he looked toward the karst cave. Suddenly, among the Order priests guarding the cave entrance, someone fell to their knees. Without a shout or a scream, they calmly used their weapon to slice off their own ears, or saw through their own palms and feet. This sudden turn of events stunned the companions beside them. Some stepped forward to investigate, while those with quicker wits instinctively began fleeing toward the perimeter. "Ptui!" Bern spat out the cigarette and roared, "Delon, activate the seal!" Delon immediately raised the Rubik's Cube. The resting formation masters all surged to their feet, dialing every array to its maximum mode together. The Throne of Order above bore down directly, forming a despairing black cage of absolute lockdown. The Order priests inside tried to break out, only to find themselves completely barred, unable to escape. One by one, they dropped to their knees, mutilating themselves in all manner of ways. The survivors began crying out in desperate pleas and screams; they could already sense an invisible demon behind them, calling their names one by one. Yet the seal had been activated; the karst cave and the outside world were entirely severed. It was impossible to open a gap to rescue them, because the slightest leak would trigger a horrifying catastrophe capable of wiping out all of Yorktown. Outside, all the Order priests who had arrived later stared in shock at the ghastly scene within. Even the eyes of the disciplined garrison knights showed terror and dread. They had never feared terrifying enemies in reality; even knowing death was certain, they would charge forward without hesitation. Yet the scene before them went beyond their comprehension. This was not combat; this was cruel mockery. Bern let out a sigh. "You take charge of containing the information. I'll go report to the top that the experiment failed. The cause was..." Karen took another drag of his cigarette, suppressing the hunger addiction within him, and finished in a grave tone: "An outbreak of divine pollution."