341 Branch
On Rue Doyle, nestled between the market district and the solemn Quartier de la Cathédrale Commémorative, stretched a verdant street. Its clean pavements and modern architectural style set it apart from its surroundings. Jenna had deliberately chosen this location to rendezvous with the Purifiers. The individuals frequenting this place had little connection to her former life, and the likelihood of recognition was slim.

Clothed in a pristine white blouse and a light-brown dress, Jenna’s attire differed slightly from her previous encounters with the two Purifiers. This strategic variation was intended to thwart any attempts by the other party to decipher her intentions if she were to wear the same ensemble repeatedly.

Nevertheless, her overall presentation remained faithful to a certain style: a portrayal of cleanliness, radiance, and vitality. This image was a composite distilled from the bishop’s sermons and the impassioned advocacy she had encountered during her involvement in Church activities.

A Sun Talisman dangled around her neck, accentuating her brownish-yellow hair that was neatly tied up. She followed the elongated shadows cast by the trees, moving toward Apartment 17.

In the midst of her journey, a brown four-wheeled carriage rumbled by. The window was ajar, revealing an arresting visage.

Adorned in a black court dress, a lady graced the carriage’s interior. A dark veil hat adorned with white feathers crowned her head, intricately framing her raven-black hair. Her face boasted soft contours; her chin held a graceful curve. A slender, elevated nose bridge led to plump, subtly upturned crimson lips. Within her dark gray eyes, a glint of brightness coexisted with a hint of melancholy, evoking a pang of sympathy.

How beautiful… Jenna sighed from the bottom of her heart as the carriage passed.

Even though Jenna herself could be considered attractive, she remained capable of appreciating the allure of others. Simultaneously, she acknowledged the stark contrast between her appearance and that of Franca, who had ascended to the rank of Demoness of Pleasure, as well as the lady who had just passed.

Shifting her focus, Jenna ascended to the roof of Apartment 17 on Rue Doyle.

Her wait was brief, for Imre and Valentine soon appeared.

Valentine’s demeanor, though frosty, gave way to a proactive inquiry. “Have you obtained crucial intelligence?”

Valentine’s gaze swept past Jenna’s neck, where the Sun Sacred Emblem was suspended. A subtle nod confirmed his satisfaction.

Jenna shook her head slowly. “No.”

Without permitting Imre and Valentine to voice their queries, she bared her emotions in earnest. “I want to repent.”
Repent? Imre exchanged a quizzical glance with Valentine.

Had something gone awry?

Jenna’s gaze lowered, a bittersweet smile touching her lips as she regarded the ground.

“My mother haunts my dreams, recurring persistently.

“And each time she appears in my sleep, I find myself grappling with a nagging question: Why did the Church permit someone like Hugues Artois to partake in the elections? Upon uncovering the truth, why did they not promptly apprehend his accomplices and thus forestall the ensuing catastrophe?

“I-I yearn for redemption. The pain gnaws at my heart, sowing doubt in my faith, and causing me to question whether God and the Church still watch over us.”

These sentiments were sincere, albeit less intense than they seemed.

Valentine felt ashamed and didn’t know how to respond to Jenna.

Imre, who had experienced many similar situations, sighed and consoled her skillfully, “There’s no need to doubt that God is always watching over us. The Sun graces the land each day, yet we understand that the ebb and flow of light and darkness constitutes the essence of our world. Just as the Sun sets inevitably to give rise to night, it’s this very cycle that allows us to revel in the radiance of the morning and the ascent of the sun.

“Pain and calamity are integral facets of existence. Their presence varies, but they are transient, much like the Sun’s emergence after the darkness.”

Jenna fell into contemplative silence for a few seconds before exhaling, a slow release of tension. She extended her arms slightly, proclaiming, “Praise the Sun!”

“Praise the Sun!” both Valentine and Imre echoed in unison.

With her sincere performance, Jenna asked, “Who propelled Hugues Artois to the position of parliament member? And who facilitated his representation for an evil god?”

“We’re in the midst of investigating. No substantial breakthroughs have emerged thus far,” Imre replied after measured consideration.

Jenna’s expression turned to one of anxiety and concern.

“Why the lack of substantive progress? Is it due to the limitations mentioned earlier, which hinder the acquisition of pivotal leads? Do you require my help? I operate unbound by restrictions and hold no fear of breaching the law!”

Imre and Valentine weren’t caught off guard by Jenna’s reaction. It echoed the same spirit as her abrupt assassination of Hugues Artois, albeit in a more subdued form.

The two exchanged glances, a wordless deliberation on whether to entrust this matter to an informant bound by contract, thereby affording greater flexibility and latitude.

Drawing upon Franca’s counsel, Jenna refrained from invoking Instigation directly. She instead gauged the disposition of the two Purifiers and employed words to accomplish her intent.

“If the Church itself finds its hands tied, could it not delegate the task to capable devotees?

“Which holds greater importance—the Church’s dignity or the well-being of God’s children?

“With each thwarted catastrophe, numerous families and lives are spared. They all stand as devout supplicants to the Sun.

“An evil god was backing Hugues Artois!”

Valentine found himself swayed, and observing Imre’s absence of dissent, he addressed Jenna with gravity, “Are you sure you want to help us investigate this matter? It’s very dangerous. The odds of forfeiting your life are substantial.”

Jenna responded with a smile suffused with complexity, “I’m afraid of death, but I’m more afraid of becoming a sacrificial lamb for the heretics, much like my mother.”

She didn’t hide her hatred at all.

Imre then said, “In the course of our investigations, we’ve ascertained that Hugues Artois shared close ties with General Philip. Certain covert activities trace back to him. However, General Philip succumbed to illness last year, resulting in the loss of all leads.

“The other backers and supporters of Hugues Artois either owed their allegiance to General Philip or deemed him an asset worthy of support. Their involvement in heretical belief or secret organizations remains unverified.”

Jenna blurted out, “What about Philip’s family? What of the heretics who encircled Hugues Artois?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Philip’s family,” Valentine responded, his tone revealing traces of vexation. “We’ve apprehended only two heretics affiliated with Hugues Artois’s campaign. Their roles were comparatively inconsequential. The individual most knowledgeable opted for suicide when escape became unfeasible. His fanaticism stymied our quest for the sought-after leads. We’ve effectively eliminated two branches of the secret organization, the Order of All Extinction.”

Order of All Extinction… Jenna recalled the secret organization that believed in an evil god.

Imre supplemented, “The primary source of knowledge is the red-haired woman named Cassandra. She hails from the Sauron lineage, a collateral branch of the former royal family. A Beyonder and a heretic graced with a boon.”

“Is there anything wrong with the Sauron family?” Jenna inquired further.

Imre shook his head.

“At present, no concrete conclusions exist. The noble families that supported Hugues Artois maintain standard relations with the Sauron family. Cassandra chose an adventuring life, as she encountered minimal regard within the Sauron family hierarchy. Subsequently, she became a Beyonder, ultimately joining Hugues Artois’s team last year.”

…

Quartier de la Maison d’Opéra, Rue Lombar, Mechanical Café.

Mechanical precision guided the King’s Pie to Poufer Sauron and his associates within the Black Cat organization. The pie bore the appearance of a brown floral marvel adorned with intricate black motifs.

Poufer looked around and said to Lumian, Anori, and the others, “I suggest that this game of King’s Pie serves as a tribute to one of my esteemed forebears. He held the title of the first Count Ardennen and the twenty-seventh Count of Champagne.”

In his interactions, Poufer habitually designated himself as Count Ardennen.

“The Count of Champagne, the one who coveted Roselle’s ass?” Novelist Anori quipped with a grin.

Over the past year, the most sought-after banned manuscript within Trier’s covert book market had been “Emperor Roselle’s Secret Chronicles.” Within its pages lay a trove of Emperor Roselle-related rumors, intermingled with an array of outlandish, sizzling revelations.

Poufer sighed and said, “That would be the thirtieth Count of Champagne, the great-grandson of my illustrious ancestor. He hails from a distinct Sauron family branch.”

“I have no objections.” The flaxen-haired painter, Mullen, steered the conversation back on track.

This was merely a game—no one else insisted on allocating the surplus King’s Pie to a specific figure, thus prompt consensus was achieved.

Considering Lumian’s usual style, he should have objected and angered Count Poufer. However, he recalled that his current role revolved around that of a friend of Gardner Martin, scion of a prosperous merchant family with a penchant for art. He was essentially playing the role of a spendthrift imbecile, a persona that basked in the lavish spending only to incur disdain.

Poufer shifted his attention to the more reticent literary critic, Ernst Young, and instructed, “You shall have the honor of cutting the pie.”

Ernst Young, his black curls framing his face, indulged in a self-deprecating smile.

“I despise the absence of waiters in the Mechanical Café. It makes me feel like a waiter.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? It signifies the absence of spies,” Novelist Anori muttered.

A puff of cherrywood smoke escaped the pipe held by Iraeta, the poet, as he chuckled in response, “Perhaps the spy is among us.”

At that moment, Ernst Young had already picked up the table knife, slicing the King’s Pie into seven equal portions.

Poufer delicately positioned one of the King’s Pie slices near the plate’s rim, hands clasped, cradling it against his chest. His voice, a soft cadence, invoked an invocation, “To you, member of the mighty Sauron family, the great Vermonda Champagne Sauron.”

Poufer repeated the incantation thrice. Lumian couldn’t help but note that Mechanical Café, already bereft of its waiters, descended into an amplified hush, akin to the commencement of the bishops’ sermons.

After offering the excess portion of the King’s Pie to Vermonda Sauron, Poufer raised his gaze to Lumian and grinned.

“You’re the guest. You’ll be the first to choose.”

Without observing, Lumian extended his hand to the King’s Pie closest to him.

At that moment, Termiboros’s resonant voice echoed in Lumian’s ears: “Switch.”