Tokyo: The Player Behind the Scenes.

Chapter 272, Section 15: God and the Priest

11 a.m., the tail end of the morning.

The church morning prayers had long since ended, and most people had already left.

The sunlight streaming in was fragmented into colorful pieces by the church's stained glass windows. An old woman sat on a bench in the front row, and beside her was an elderly man with cloudy, dull eyes.

He stared blankly in a certain direction, occasionally glancing at the old woman beside him, revealing a contradictory expression of both closeness and estrangement.

The old woman's hand covered his, gripping it tightly; the veins on both hands, beneath the loose skin, spoke volumes of the years.

"Paul, oh Paul"

She murmured to the priest in front of her, sounding utterly exhausted.

“I am here, Mrs. Mary, I am here.”

Father Paul knelt down in front of the old woman, gently placing his warm hand on the back of her cool hand. The prominent wrist bone pressed against his palm, sending an uncontrollable tremor through him.

"The doctor said my surgery can't be delayed." Her aged face was filled with fear and worry as she gazed at the crucifix in front of her. "Paul, Lord, can you really hear our prayers?"

“Look at the birds of the air, they neither sow nor reap,” Paul’s gentle and steady voice, accompanied by a light pat on his hand, clearly conveyed comfort to her ears. “Even our Heavenly Father feeds them, are you not far more precious than the birds?”

Mrs. Mary pressed her dry lips together, her deep tear troughs tinged with bitterness, and she shook her head slightly:
"I'm not afraid of death, really not, it's just that if I die, what will happen to him?"

As she spoke, she raised her other hand and gently stroked her husband's age-spotted cheeks, as if she wanted to imprint his face on her fingertips forever.

As time passed, she could no longer find her reflection in her husband's cloudy eyes.

Father Paul’s throat bobbed slightly, his eyes resolute: “I will remain this way until you are old; until you are gray-haired. The embrace of the Lord will never change.”

"Lord, thank you, Father Paul."

Mrs. Mary took a deep breath, as if drawing the last bit of strength from her faith, and struggled to suppress her deep sorrow.

She stood up from the bench and extended her hand to her husband beside her as if inviting him to dance, just as she had done when they were young.

“Honey, it’s time to go home.”

The old man slowly turned his neck, his gaze sweeping over the colorful images of saints on the stained glass window, both curious and fearful, like a child who had wandered into a strange place, as if it were his first time in a place he had actually visited a thousand times before.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he let out a silent sob, and finally placed his thin, bony hand in Mary's palm.

Then, he slowly straightened up, trembling slightly, and nestled close to his wife. Only then did the unease emanating from him begin to subside.

"Walk slowly, for you crown the years with grace."

Father Paul escorted them to the church entrance, standing at the intersection of light and shadow, watching the two figures, supporting each other and walking unsteadily, disappear at the end of the street.

The Marys were devout believers in the church and could be said to have watched Paul grow up.

Witnessing how mercilessly time had eroded them, Paul felt a tightness in his chest and returned to the altar in a daze, his fingertips tracing the Bible spread out on it.

"."

Paul then caught a glimpse of a figure sitting upright in the corner of the back bench, next to a pillar.

He was so silent that Paul momentarily forgot whether this person had ever been in that seat before.

Paul straightened his robes, closed his Bible, and walked toward the figure.

It was a middle-aged man I didn't recognize. He had some mottled scars on his face, was about forty or fifty years old, with gray hair and a scruffy beard. It was clear that his owner had no intention of taking care of him.

He was wearing a slightly old-fashioned gray-blue work shirt, and as if nailed to his seat, he stared silently at the Christ statue at the end of his line of sight.

Most striking was a blurry cross tattoo on the back of his bare hand, torn beyond recognition by countless crisscrossing, centipede-like, grotesque scars.

"Peace be with you." Paul sat down on the same bench, about one person's distance from the man, and greeted him. "Whether this place is empty or not, the cross will never miss a believer's prayer. Do you have any words you want to send to God?"

The man's gaze remained fixed on the cross above the altar.

"He said He loved the world." The middle-aged man's voice was hoarse, befitting his appearance. "Do you believe it?"

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son,” Paul quoted the scripture with certainty. “I believe, but love is not indulgence. You can do that.”

"Is that love?" the man suddenly interrupted, turning his head mechanically towards the priest. "Or is it just condescending observation?"

Paul saw the look in his eyes, a look he had seen many times before. Those souls crushed by life, betrayed by faith, and swallowed by despair often had a similar anger burning deep in their eyes.

"For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." Paul tried to comfort his companion with scripture.

“Enough. You don’t need to quote me from the scriptures; I’ve heard them too many times.” The man looked down at the Bible in his hands. “Do you know what a priest’s duties are?”

Paul did not get angry at the other party's rudeness, but remained calm: "The sheepdog of the lost sheep, I think you know the original text."

“Lamb,” the man nodded gently, “but what if the sheepdog is a wolf in disguise? Would God break its neck with his own hands?”

Paul paused for a moment, then slowly began to speak: “Every tree that does not bear good fruit should be cut down and thrown into the fire. The fire of God will cleanse all defilement.”

The man let out a suppressed laugh, like a cough. Then he abruptly stood up, not looking at Paul again, and walked towards the door.

“Father.” The man paused in the porch, the backlight from the door sculpting him into a charred, blurry shadow. “I have tried to entrust myself to God.”

"But I didn't get that fire. God, He is powerless to help humankind."

As soon as he finished speaking, the man's heavy footsteps disappeared outside the door.

Father Paul stood there, neither trying to stop him nor responding, simply watching him leave calmly.

The emergence of the extraordinary has had a great impact on the world.

Ordinary people might just express their feelings on short videos and then go about their business, but as a clergyman, his experience is much deeper.

Anything in the church that was a bit old was taken away by the authorities under the guise of being borrowed.

Moreover, it's not just the level of official attention they receive, but also the attention from believers, which generally leads to two extreme emotions.

Either their faith becomes stronger as a result, or people who were not originally religious come to embrace God, but these people are very utilitarian, coming for miracles and benefits.

Or perhaps their faith has collapsed, and they feel that the extraordinary things that are happening now have nothing to do with God, and maybe God doesn't exist in this world at all.

The first type is more common overall, but the man we just saw was clearly not that type.

Paul shook his head, suppressing these thoughts.

He was powerless to do anything about it, but he still firmly believed in the existence of God. Perhaps it was God's mercy that temporarily contained the disaster of Mount Fuji erupting and demons running rampant within Japan? He could only silently pray for the believers on that land.

Amen.

Suburbs.

The dilapidated secondhand car bumped along the rutted dirt road and finally came to a stop in front of a somewhat desolate farm.

Upon arriving at his destination, the man parked his car haphazardly in front of the house, sat there staring blankly at the open door for a while before finally opening the door.

The house is decorated in a very cozy style, typical of American country villas.

The various daily necessities were arranged fairly neatly, not particularly tidy, but full of life, as if the family had just had a proper meal together inside.

The man walked slowly, step by step, past the doorway and into the restaurant.

A well-dressed figure stood tall by the window, exuding an air of wealth and luxury; it was as if you could almost smell the ink of banknotes if you got any closer.

“I’m glad you chose to believe me, Arthur.” Ethan turned around, his smile impeccable.

Arthur used to hate fake smiles the most.

He didn't reply immediately, but simply stroked the spotless cups and glasses on the table with his hand.

This doesn't make sense. The only explanation is that Ethan had someone clean the place before he arrived, and the setup was quite elaborate.

He gently moved the chair in the main seat and slowly sat down, but dared not sit down completely, only touching half of his buttocks.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

The air seemed to still carry the scent of five years ago: the aroma of freshly baked bread, his wife's gentle whispers, and his son's joyful laughter. But these warm memories didn't last long. The afternoon argument that led to the decision to sell the farm shattered the illusion, ringing clearly in his ears.

“Listen, Arthur, we have to sell the farm! If we keep losing money like this, we won’t even be able to pay the electricity bill!”

"Honey, give me a little more time, I'm sure I can think of a way."

"What other choice do we have? No one knows the family's situation better than me! We can still get some money by selling them now! Arthur, it's time to wake up!"

"dad."

"Child, your mother and I need to discuss something important. Would you like to go back to your room first?"

".good."

The image of his son leaving in despair became the last clear picture in his memory, shattering like glass.

Arthur opened his eyes, suppressing his burning emotions.

"As long as you meet my conditions, I can agree to all the requests I mentioned earlier."

Ethan's gaze swept over the man's clenched fists on his knees before he sat down opposite him.

"Meeting your conditions is easy for me, and I don't intend to hide it from you."

"But I don't want a knife that's out of control either."

Arthur shook his head: "I'm perfectly sober."

Ethan remained noncommittal, took out a few sheets of paper from his briefcase, flicked them lightly, and, supported by the blood energy, placed them in front of Arthur.

"Everything about Father Geoghan is here. You'll show me your sanity, won't you?"

Arthur placed his hands on the document, stroking it gently: "I promised you, and I will keep my word. In the game, I will stand by your side, even if you are utterly wicked."

Ethan just smiled.

"I just hope you understand that only after you've completed the game will you have a little bit of the qualifications to fight against this society and the deeply entrenched interest groups. But if you die before that, you're nothing."

"Your hatred, your obsession, are worthless. No one will avenge you."

Arthur opened the document and read it word by word: "I have paid the price for impulsiveness for five years and understand the importance of opportunity."

Ethan didn't say anything more and left the house.

Arthur remained seated at the dining table, oblivious to the gradually shifting sunlight.

He read the document carefully until he had memorized every detail before putting it down.

By this time, it was already nearly dusk outside.

Five years ago, Arthur's son committed suicide.

He found it hard to accept this devastating news. In his view, his child had always been cheerful, so how could he have taken the step of suicide? Especially since, in his opinion, this suicide was completely without warning.

Of course, looking back, there were actually quite a few things that didn't go right.

The wife suffered from severe depression due to the huge blow. Not long after, one winter night, she lost control of her car and veered off the road. She was not found until dawn, and she was already dead.

After losing his son and wife in succession, Arthur became increasingly silent, and the search for answers became the driving force that kept him alive.

Based on some clues, he found his son's classmate, and under his questioning, he vaguely sensed that this might be related to the nearby church.

As the investigation deepened, even without direct evidence, it was enough for him to draw a conclusion.

One of the worst guesses.

The murderer who caused his son's suicide was Father Geogen of the church.

Ironically, the funeral was officiated by Giorgen.

At the time, he thanked the priest for euphemistically describing the suicide as a tragedy of depression, never imagining that the priest was the culprit.

He, a father, actually allowed a murderer to preside over the funeral of the victim's son and thanked him.

Whenever Arthur thought of this, he felt his son's ghost silently accusing him, and a strong sense of suffocation gripped his throat, making it almost impossible for him to breathe.

Extreme anger overwhelmed his reason. Arthur grabbed the old hunting rifle from his home, rushed into the church, and found Father Geoghan.

Amidst the heated argument and confrontation, a gunshot rang out.

The priest and a believer who tried to stop him fell in a pool of blood, and then he was stopped by more people.

Father Giorgian was not severely punished by law due to a lack of crucial evidence.

When Arthur was released from prison after serving his sentence for assault, the demon had already left his original parish and vanished without a trace.

Just as Arthur sank deeper into despair, wandering like a zombie, the mysterious game chose him.

The Silver Cup Manor game has now reached its fifth round.

Half a day ago, when he was in church, it was during the fifth round of the game that had just ended.

But in the second round, Ethan had already keenly noticed the undisguised hatred in Arthur's eyes.

So during a break in the game, Ethan cleverly bypassed the rules and passed him a message.

"Interested in making a deal?"

This statement cleverly avoided violating the rules of the game and also conveyed his contact information through his finger.

Arthur, who had just been released from prison, did not hesitate much and contacted Ethan directly.

And so, today's meeting came about.

Ethan provides information about his enemy, and Arthur willingly becomes Ethan's pawn in the game.

Perhaps in reality, he was also a pawn, but he didn't care too much about it.

In his eyes, there are only three types of people nowadays.

Those who help him get revenge are all good people.

Those who meddle in others' affairs are merely passersby.

Anyone who tries to stop him from taking revenge is an enemy.

　Thank you "钰雨星泷" for the donation.
　　
　
(End of this chapter)