Returning from the abyss

Chapter 1464 "The Revelation Recipient"

On the same night that the apothecary and Poirot were busy with the "sparkling wine," another ball was held late into the night in the castle atop Violet City. This ball was not convened by Grand Duke Toril, but by Roswell, who had now been confirmed as the heir to the Toril Empire. Grand Duke Toril had already arranged everything for his successor; his achievements were sufficient to secure the title of Grand Duke. Now, all he needed to do was build up his reputation and win over the hearts of the people.

Among nobles, communication was generally achieved through social gatherings such as banquets and balls. After all, private communication was only suitable for those who needed to be won over, while such occasions were necessary for making a wide circle of friends.

However, some people are not so happy.

In a corner of the ballroom, a woman in a formal dress sat dejectedly next to a man with graying hair, holding a glass of wine.

"Uncle, I really don't want to attend this kind of banquet."

"Are you unhappy just because these people weren't recruited by you?" the gray-haired man said with a smile. "Tia, you should know that to cultivate your own power, you should find a territory, instead of wasting your time in Violet City."

“But I was born in Violet City, and my father didn’t even give me a chance to fight for the inheritance—”

The man simply smiled and offered words of comfort, but he knew perfectly well that Tia wasn't qualified simply because she was utterly incompetent. Ambitious but lacking in ability, arrogant and conceited, her interpersonal skills were only superficial; with such half-baked skills, expecting to recruit those seasoned veterans of high positions in Violet City was nothing short of a pipe dream.

But this is just right.

"You need to enrich yourself more. Go to my study and get a few books. Violet City has already decided on its heir. Now you need to learn how to build good relationships with them while developing your own power."

"Okay, but I hate reading, except for storybooks, which are more interesting...it's better than here."

The man smiled and nodded. Some time after Tia left, a servant came to his side and whispered something in his ear.

"Very good." The man placed two silver coins in the servant's hand, then quietly left the room, his face disappearing with him.

"In this way, the last one has already been sent out."

A slender man, now completely transformed, emerged from the ballroom. If one didn't know him, one would likely mistake him for a pampered nobleman. Although he lacked the air of nobility he once possessed, it was clear he was quite wealthy.

But if someone recognizes him, they will probably have to keep their distance.

"The Revelation" and "The Writer" Edgar Allan.

No one would have imagined that a veteran Plague Apostle like Pandion would form an alliance with another equally senior Plague Apostle. After all, these apostles, who had caused quite a stir in the past, disliked each other and each believed themselves to be the sole representative of God's will. Edwid, in particular, was an apostle who had been lying low for a long time, and outside of the church, most external accounts had already declared him dead.

Edwild's appearance had been fixed in this way for thirty years, unlike Pandion, who showed obvious signs of aging. The reason his appearance was fixed was due to the effect of his divine spell "Human Skin Gallery." During a plague outbreak, Edwild successfully peeled off his own skin and fixed it into a replaceable human skin, thus preserving his youthful appearance forever.

One can imagine the nature of someone who can be so ruthless to themselves.

"Oh, the sparkling wine has been discovered? A bit too late... Those children, ecstatic and eager to share, will surely distract the Church. They'll probably be busy dealing with this medium-sized plague for the next few days. As for what those young people are spreading... let them have their fun. After all, for Violet City, a bigger commotion is needed to satisfy my expectations." Edwid strolled leisurely down the mountain path, even taking off his hat to salute the Church of East as he passed.

In her quiet room, Tia opened the book she had borrowed from her "uncle." As she had said, she wasn't particularly interested in books about power struggles, social interactions, or schemes, but this particular book had immediately caught her attention when she picked it up.

The book wasn't thick, which suited her perfectly. Thick books tend to make her sleepy, and only those romance novels could keep her engrossed. This book, in particular, met her requirements perfectly. The beautiful descriptions of noblemen, talented young men, military officers, and politicians all surrounding her made her feel that the author was her kindred spirit, and she could no longer hear the rustling sounds coming from the room.

She gently turned a page, rolled over, and continued reading while lying on her back. Just then, a maid entered the room with hot water and said, "Miss Tia, it's time for your usual rest..."

The sight in the room froze the maid in shock, leaving her speechless. The door closed quietly behind her, followed by a sound of flesh being crushed.

"Ah... my loyal maid..."

Tia gradually sat up in bed, the book embedded in her chest and abdomen, gradually merging with her, the remaining cover bearing the green title—"The Queen's March."

On this page, eight other people are reading the book with Tia. These people, carefully selected by Edwild, opened the book on the same night, and as they became engrossed in reading, they saw themselves in the book, or perhaps, the book was themselves.

In a city cemetery in the northwest, a lonely gravedigger opened a book he had bought that day to pass the time. In the flickering light of his shack, the figure inside grew larger and larger, and a foul stench emanated from within. As this odor spread across the cemetery, things beneath some of the tombstones began to stir restlessly.

Outside a "factory" in the east, a worker, fired for resisting a wage cut, sat dejectedly under a tree. His few personal belongings had been thrown out, and now he was homeless. In anger and despair, he rummaged through his things and found a book that didn't belong to him. Near the western checkpoint, a fight among several beggars finally ended. A stronger beggar defeated the others and obtained enough food from a bored, wealthy man who had deliberately brought out a bag of food to gamble. He pulled out a piece of bread, and with it came a thin booklet. The beggar couldn't read, but he found he could understand the meaning inside.

In the underground fighting arena, another fight ended. "Iron Hammer" defeated his opponent with the only spell he possessed, and his desperate tactic drew cheers from everyone. However, he silently returned to the lounge. This was the last fight; he had finally saved enough money... At that moment, a picture book on the lounge table caught his eye.

“My poor friend, Fugate, he may have been killed by the ‘gourmet,’ but who knows why he went to the church and drowned in such a place? So pitiful…” The nobleman put down his newspaper with a sigh and took the book handed to him by his servant. “At this time, sufficient refinement can show our difference. Even if we encounter such a situation, we will not panic to the point of rushing into such a place that is even disgusting to talk about.”

Meanwhile, in the nobleman's secret underground prison, the young girls, tortured to the point of near death, gathered behind an older woman who could barely stand. The woman warily eyed the jailer approaching the bars and said, "You've already tortured us today. If you do this again, we'll die! And you won't be able to explain yourself!"

"...Don't misunderstand, I'm one of your comrades." The man dressed as a jailer grinned in the darkness, handing a book through a gap in the bars. The book contained two candles and a box of matches. "The fear, torture, and pain you've endured—someone should pay for it, shouldn't they?"

In a western parish, another body was carried out of an unassuming clinic. The doctor there wasn't a church member, just a half-believer, and he was on the verge of collapse. Although he knew perfectly well that many of the people brought in were terminally ill and beyond saving, he still couldn't save them. Under this pressure, he had begun to seriously doubt his own medical skills. So this time, he didn't take any medical books from the shelf.

A drunkard stumbled out of the bar. After the "Gourmet's" incident, bars reopened after strict inspections, and people continued to flock there. Most patients, after receiving targeted treatment, had largely recovered from the plague. Those suppressed back into the incubation period could be eradicated within a few months with regular medication. The people of Violet City were no longer so afraid of the plague. But this drunkard was different; he hadn't always been like that.

After personally cannibalizing his wife and children, his illness was suppressed, but his life had come to an end. Alcoholism was the only way to stop him from having nightmares at night, but over time, even alcohol was losing its ability to numb his mind. Even so, he couldn't muster the courage to commit suicide.

"You need to find another way, think of something else."

A man stood next to him, picked up his pipe and lit it; he seemed to be a regular customer here.

"I can't stop thinking about it..." The man sat on the ground, covering his face, ignoring the dirt. The other man sighed and took a book out of his pocket, handing it to him.

"Read a book and immerse yourself in the words; perhaps it will help you forget some of the realities of life."

The man took the book in a daze, took a puff of his cigarette, and walked away.

Those shadows involved in the events vanished into the darkness—booksellers, servants, jailers, patrons… their skins were collected into a passing carriage, leaving nothing beneath. Edwid confirmed that each “prototype” had been deployed. He easily changed into another skin, then had the carriage stop beside an inn. He knew one thing very well:

This night will be remembered by the world—the great Edwild wrote the prologue to "The Other" in Violet City.

=
Why is there a shortage of manpower?

After pulling an all-nighter, the pharmacist finally couldn't hold back any longer. It was one thing for the rural church to be short-staffed, but this was Violet City, with representatives from all seven cardinals and four dioceses in the east, west, south, and north. How could they not have enough people? Back when the "Gourmet" was in the past, there was a large group of people helping Vanessa deal with the plague!

“Uh…please calm down, because several plagues similar to the one affecting sparkling wine have appeared. Now monks from all the churches have set off, and even the people of the Privy Council have to fill in. We are really too busy to handle everything…” a monk replied.

"Several?" The pharmacist sensed a conspiracy. "Such an abnormal situation, shouldn't the Church of East be reacting? At their speed, shouldn't there be a unified deployment by now?"

“Unfortunately… not yet.” Mr. Poirot entered at that moment, his face also covered by a mask to avoid being attracted by the smell of corpses. “Madam Pharmacist, I think the Plague Apostles have clearly been preparing for a long time, deliberately choosing the same time to strike. I have received intelligence on several cases, and judging from the scenes of these cases, the Plague Apostles are using this kind of plague with a long incubation period, special triggering conditions, and difficult-to-control harm. Even if the Church of East is to deploy troops, it will probably take more than one night to coordinate and handle so many plague reports submitted at the same time.”

"Then all the problems here are out in the open. Multiple outbreaks of plague at the same time are tying up the church's manpower. What are they trying to do?" the pharmacist asked rhetorically.

Mr. Poirot sighed: “That’s obviously a bigger scheme. These things will keep the church busy for a while, keeping them occupied for ten days or half a month, but what if it’s not just these things? If a real, high-risk plague is already brewing, the church has absolutely no time to investigate.”

"Does the detective have any relevant clues?" the pharmacist asked.

“Yes, but there are too many. Many of my students have also responded to the church’s assignment and set off. Some of the information they left me seems very suspicious. But I’m short-handed right now. If the ‘sparkling wine’ situation is resolved on-site, does the apothecary know of any other people who can assist us? I only have three people I can use right now,” Poirot said helplessly.

"Have."

The situation was urgent, and the pharmacist, not intending to discuss anything else, immediately gave an answer.

"How long will it take you to organize the materials? We need to get to the Southern Minute Church as soon as possible. There aren't many people there, but we can still spare a dozen or so people, unless there's an outbreak of plague in the sparsely populated southern region as well."

Mr. Poirot laughed: "Although there have been two cases reported in the south, they haven't affected the area where the Minute Church is located. That place is too far away, and there aren't many people there. If it weren't for the proximity, it certainly wouldn't have affected that area. Give me some time, and my men and I will arrive with the supplies by noon."