Chapter 17

61

Edward threaded a fishing line through a pulley, attaching one end to the cradle and the other to a pedal on his piano.

"...What are you doing?" a voice came from the cradle.

"I need to work. This way, I can rock the cradle just by pressing a pedal. My wife even praised this idea." Edward sat down at the piano with a pencil tucked behind his ear. His right hand played a few scales on the freshly tuned piano, while his left gripped a dozen sheets of manuscript paper.

"Have you considered that I'm actually a mythical creature?" The True Creator felt at a loss for words, one eye saying There's something wrong with you, the other filled with contempt. He gripped the edge of the cradle and propped up his upper body, watching Edward work at the piano and occasionally scribble on the manuscript paper. Unable to help himself, he said, "You certainly have it easy. You even have time for work."

Edward glanced at him. "It's been six days since the Descent of the True Creator. Have you decided when you're going to reimburse me for my clothes and travel expenses? My clothes were bespoke pieces from a long-established tailor in Empress Borough. They cost nearly a hundred pounds."

"..." The True Creator fell silent for a moment. "Next time, definitely."

"During those several hundred years you spent mad, your believers commissioned more than a dozen chorales and Masses from me. They would even have commissioned operas based on the Holy Bible if they'd been able to assemble a cast. And they haven't paid for any of them. Do you know my rates? I'll give you a discount. Two thousand five hundred pounds, and we're square."

After looking through the ledger, the True Creator slowly lay back down. "I'm a baby. Go talk to whoever handles the Aurora Order's accounts."

Money had brought the two evil gods closer together.

In the quiet study, the Abyss Angel recalled the broad outline of the script he would be working on with Miss Fors Wall: a comic opera, made up of a warm, beautiful opening with two lovers, a tear-jerking middle in which the male lead died, and an ending in which his death was avenged.

Then the overture, which hinted at the plot of the entire opera, should contain... a low part played by a wind instrument to represent the steady male lead, and a lively, playful high part played by a string instrument to represent the female lead. He would weave them together, develop them through the twists of the plot, and build the whole piece around them. The orchestration would be arranged as circumstances required, then trimmed according to the detailed script. He expected to submit it to the theater for performance by the end of the year.

"Everyone running the Aurora Order is busy dealing with your earlier global broadcast. Otherwise, you wouldn't be staying with me."

Edward rapidly drafted eight bars of the main melody. "The brief halt in the ravings and the collective excitement among the Shepherd pathway's higher ranks are already suspicious enough. If you stayed with the Aurora Order, you'd cause an even bigger commotion. Then any one of Steam, Evernight, or Storm could descend and swat you dead."

"The Aurora Order has been in internal turmoil lately," the True Creator replied calmly. "I intend to reshape my image, reclaim my glory, and connect my present self to my past self. Some believers only worship me so they can commit evil with impunity and a sense of legitimacy. Other devout believers rejoiced at my proclamation. The two factions have come into conflict."

"But the former faction isn't very strong. Saint Tenebrous is still watching from the sidelines so he can catch them all in one sweep. They are all my anchors, so persuading and reforming them would naturally be best. Those who simply won't listen will be disposed of."

"That sounds like good news."

"Back in Tingen, you intended to slaughter the city to advance, didn't you?"

"That's right. If I'd succeeded, I would have completed six of the nine massacres. I was seventy percent confident of advancing successfully." Edward played as he casually answered, improvising the harmony. "If I had succeeded, that city would probably have become a wasteland for the living, a hunting ground for the Wraiths, and a projection of the Abyss upon the earth for at least the next five hundred years."

"Then how many actual casualties were there?"

"As of today, the Churches have cleared away every lingering effect I left behind. Total casualties: four thousand three hundred and fifty-one. Very few, really. Going by my usual style, there should have been at least another zero on the end."

His hands stopped playing the piano, and he suddenly tilted his head. "One moment."

"That unruly student of mine is looking for me," Edward said. "He's later than I expected."

62

It was already the sixth day since the tragedy. Ademisaul sat on the steps outside the Poorhouse, gazing hazily at the sun in the sky. The children had finished their midday lessons and were playing in the street, chattering away.

Just as he had seen in the river of fate, Tingen had been submerged in a sea of blood. Yet red moonlight had shone down upon it, and apart from a few people swept away by the bloody sea, Tingen had miraculously survived intact. Only a few residents of the Poorhouse who had long been frail and sickly had died in the catastrophe. They looked as though they were asleep, their expressions peaceful. The director, who was over seventy, held a simple funeral for them and notified their relatives. Their bodies were sent to the various churches according to their faiths, where priests performed a collective Requiem before their burial.

Through his daze, he heard hurried footsteps behind him.

Flat shoes. Those were the director's footsteps. He turned and saw her rush out to greet a young man with dark gray hair who had just arrived at the Poorhouse entrance. The young man wore a somewhat worn, outdated coat. He was travel-stained and carried a faint smell of the machine oil peculiar to steam trains. The director approached him and spoke anxiously. He listened with a grave expression, and the two entered the Poorhouse together.

"Leader, you're finally here." Inside the Poorhouse director's office, the old woman closed the door. Her expression was sorrowful, and she clutched a blue-green handkerchief. "Tingen faced a crisis last week. Ademisaul, a half-'Monster,' was the first to see signs of the catastrophe, but despite our best efforts, we couldn't find a way to avert it. The Churches have counted more than three thousand deaths, but there's simply no way to determine exactly how many people perished."

Richard nodded. "What did the Churches' investigation conclude?"

The director answered, "Panic caused by a robber's gun accidentally discharging, combined with an accidental fire on Lower Street. The chaos caused some pessimistic people to lose the will to live, leading them to take drugs and die in their sleep."

"Die in their sleep..." Richard repeated softly, looking thoughtful. "Then what information have we uncovered?"

"A lady suspected of being a 'Demoness' previously died an unnatural death. It was gruesome. Connecting it with this incident, the Churches' Beyonders concluded that it was a 'Devil.'" The director remembered something and quickly added, "The Churches believe the Demoness's death was part of a ritual to please a devil. As for how they reached their later conclusions, they haven't made that public. We have no leads."

Richard's brows drew together, then relaxed. He looked thoughtful before asking about the details. "Does the Poorhouse have enough funds for this month? I checked the ledger. August's deficit was only fifty pounds, a great improvement over July. Have the children been living and studying well lately?"

"The children are all doing well, and none of them were hurt in this catastrophe. Little Alia, who has already been admitted to Grammar University, is safe too. She works very hard..." The director paused, and joy finally softened some of the sorrow on her face. "We took an order from the Church's Welfare Home, having the children help process some simple, partially finished garments to earn a little money toward our expenses. Leader, it's already... September this year. Winter..."

"I've just returned from Feynapotter. Thanks to the merciful Earth Mother, I've raised enough money for the winter and the start of the new year. When the time comes, we'll buy cotton in bulk directly from our partners in Intis. This year, we should be able to replace all the bedding and still have money left to make padded clothes. Everyone can enjoy a warm new year."

The Temperance Angel had come prepared. He took a small notebook from his pocket, wrote in it for a while, then counted out exactly fifty pounds from his suitcase and placed it on the director's desk. Startled, she hurriedly pressed the banknotes back into Richard's hand. "What are you doing? We're reasonably well off this month. The children can afford vegetable soup with bits of meat and bran bread. We don't need you to subsidize us!"

"This is aid for the sudden incident in Tingen. The relatives of those who died at the Poorhouse need some money to soothe their wounded hearts."

At his words, the old woman's smile suddenly grew bleak.

"Leader, of the six unfortunate people who died, five were longtime residents of the Poorhouse who helped us despite their illnesses."

"Only one was a little girl whose parents were still alive. She came here just last month," the director answered softly. "She had been frail and sickly since birth, then developed a terminal illness. Even her parents' devout prayers couldn't persuade the gods to grant her a little blessing. Her parents were merchants, and they spent almost all their savings trying to treat her. In the end, they had no choice but to send her to us. On that very day, she died. She died smiling, but her face was covered in tears."

"After her death, her parents calmly accepted the news. They've already taken her body and all her belongings away and buried her in the cemetery."

"...Life is a pilgrimage in which we gather suffering and happiness. We cannot fight death, but we must at least let people have beautiful memories." Richard lowered his eyes and prayed slowly. "Now she has completed her journey and found peace. There is no more sorrow or cold. Bless her, and praise the Lord."

"Praise the Lord." The old woman also closed her eyes and prayed quietly.

After a brief silence, Richard took his leave of the director and left her office.

He went to a secluded little prayer room in a corner of the floor, closed the door, knelt on one knee, and quietly recited the honorific name.

"You are the essence of withering, the sovereign from the Land of Deep Black."

"...Merciful Lord Edward Vaughan-my Lord, your devout believer begs for your gaze and your response."

He recited it three times in succession, then waited several minutes. At last, a strange gaze descended. The little prayer room dimmed for an instant, and the sunlight shining through the window turned pale and cold.

"Richard Ernst."

A corresponding vision appeared before the Temperance Angel's eyes: flowing black mist, and a faint figure behind it.

His teacher asked, "What do you want?"

63

"What do you want?"

That was what I asked him, though I could have guessed without asking. Whenever he voluntarily prayed to me, it was either to offer up a ledger, request financial assistance, or ask for news of the Indulgence Faction. Ever since he became an angel, almost everything he sent me had been nonsense. This time, though, I could imagine his question. It should have been: Why did you kill the innocent?

"My Lord, why did you descend upon Tingen and take people's souls?" Richard knelt on one knee, his head bowed deeply. "Thank you for your response."

"It was a ritual held for my ally, the True Creator, to descend upon the earth," I answered him. "Only sufficient death and souls can allow a true god to descend. This was already the smallest possible price."

"...You fulfilled your promise, granting peace to those in despair and leaving those who loved life unharmed. Thank you for your mercy."

The Temperance Angel's voice was filled with a particular emotion: sorrow and helplessness. I understood how he felt. After following me for two hundred years, he still hadn't grown accustomed to the fact that I was a devil. He still believed I was different from those other mad devils, still stubbornly believed he could use "humanity" to restore my compassion and kindness. I, too, was deeply sorrowful and helpless. But if most people in the world were "hypocrites," then Richard Ernst truly was one of the few "good people" qualified to condemn me. Yet this Lawful Good had been taught by a "devil." The Seven Gods and those beings outside must never learn of this, or they might mock me with everything they had until the apocalypse.

The conversation afterward was simple. He continued to admonish and condemn me, and I didn't play games with devilish rhetoric. I frankly admitted that all four thousand three hundred and fifty-one lives were fresh blood debts on my hands.

He was outstanding. Annoying, but still useful, so I wouldn't reclaim him for now. After a conversation devoid of any value, he asked to withdraw. I took the opportunity to say goodbye and sever the connection. The entire conversation lasted no more than five minutes. This had been the norm for our exchanges over the past century.

Work still had to go on. I hadn't even finished the overture for the opera's score. Looking at the manuscript paper in my hands, I remembered that I had returned home yesterday. I ought to write a reply to Miss Fors Wall, ask how she was doing, and arrange to meet her to check on the script's progress.

TBC

A transitional chapter, taking place during the daytime on the day Klein awakened.

*Strictly speaking, the Monarch of Decay is actually genderless. He always has been, and he has already been a mythical creature for tens of thousands of years. He is referred to with the divine pronoun, and can define his own gender.

*In the later plot, someone else will condemn Edward for indiscriminately killing innocents in Tingen (you can guess who). At that point, Edward won't admit it frankly. Instead, he'll take a keen interest in using devilish sophistry to lure the other person into his own logic, hoping to make him lose control as his beliefs collapse. Although he won't succeed completely, he'll plant seeds of doubt and uncertainty that will sooner or later detonate within that person's mind.

But Edward won't do that with Richard, because there's no point. Richard truly is qualified to condemn him, so he can't be bothered to argue.