Organ rental company in another world

The atmosphere in the council chamber of Basel's palace was as oppressive as the sky before a storm.

At the head of the long table sat King Saint Oran Fars, his face grim, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the armrest, producing a dull, rhythmic sound. Beside him stood two fully armed guards, their silver armor gleaming coldly in the candlelight.

Eleven brown-robed messengers sat on either side of the long table, their hoods removed to reveal eleven faces with varying expressions. The youngest looked to be in his early thirties, while the oldest, like Dante, had white hair and beard, his thin fingers gripping the armrests of his chair tightly.

"Your Majesty," the eldest man in the brown robes spoke first, his voice hoarse yet carrying an undeniable air of authority, "His Holiness the French Emperor has been missing for a full day. You must give us an explanation."

Saint Oran stopped tapping, raised his head, met the old man's gaze, and said without any emotion, "My men are searching with all their might, and will notify you immediately as soon as there is any news."

"Search?" The middle-aged man in a brown robe sitting opposite the old man sneered, placing his hands on the table and leaning forward slightly. "Your Majesty, I've heard something very interesting—before His Majesty the French Emperor disappeared, he received a letter sent from the palace. That letter bore your seal."

Saint Oran's eyes narrowed slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. He didn't answer immediately, but instead picked up his wine glass and slowly took a sip.

"So what if it is?"

The middle-aged man in brown robes was taken aback by his quick admission. He paused for a moment, then stood up, his voice rising several decibels: "Your Majesty! His Holiness the French Emperor left his residence after receiving your letter and has not returned since! Shouldn't you explain what was written in that letter? Or... is the kingdom doing something shady?"

These words caused the atmosphere in the council chamber to become even more tense. The other brown-robed men all turned their gazes toward Saint Oran, some of them already secretly reaching for their wands at their waists.

Saint Oran set down his wine glass, the bottom clinking softly against the table. He looked up, surveyed the brown-robed figures present, and slowly said, "You're overthinking it. That letter contained intelligence about the kingdom's black magician stronghold."

"A dark magician?" The older man in the brown robe frowned.

"Indeed," Saint Oran said without changing his expression. "A few days ago, we captured a dark mage. After interrogation, he revealed the hiding place of his accomplices. I sent someone to inform His Holiness the French Emperor of this news, originally intending only to ask him to make a decision, but I did not expect His Holiness the French Emperor to personally handle it."

He paused, a hint of helplessness in his voice: "By the time my soldiers arrived, the estate there was already in ruins, and His Majesty the French Emperor was nowhere to be found."

"Hmph, what a coincidence." The middle-aged man in the brown robe clearly didn't believe it. "His Holiness the King of France had just received your letter when the incident happened. You think you can absolve yourself of any responsibility with just a 'missing' statement?"

"Believe it or not." Saint Oran's tone turned cold. "I've said everything I need to say. If you don't believe me, you can investigate for yourselves. His Holiness the Emperor is not here, so the initiation ceremony cannot be delayed indefinitely. You continue the selection process, and the kingdom will find out His Holiness the Emperor's whereabouts as soon as possible."

The men in brown robes exchanged glances. The eldest of them pondered for a moment, then slowly nodded: "His Majesty is right; the initiation ceremony certainly cannot be stopped."

The middle-aged man in the brown robe grew anxious and turned to the old man: "Teacher! You believe it so easily?"

"What can you do if you don't believe me?" The old man glanced at him, his tone indifferent. "You know His Majesty's abilities better than I do. Killing him is harder than climbing to heaven. Instead of arguing with His Majesty here, we should finish the ceremony as soon as possible so we can go back sooner."

The middle-aged man in the brown robe wanted to say something, but the old man raised his hand to stop him. He took a deep breath, swallowed the words that were on the tip of his tongue, and sat heavily back in his chair, his face full of resentment.

The other men in brown robes also rose and followed the old man out of the council hall. Their faces were ashen, their steps hurried, and the hems of their robes fluttered behind them. They clearly did not accept the king's explanation, but they were helpless.

Just as the old man said, they weren't worried about Dante's safety at all. That ancient monster, who had lived for hundreds of years, was beyond the reach of even the evil gods; no one on this continent had yet been born who could kill him.

What they really cared about was that without Dante's dimensional teleportation magic, they would have to ride horses, enduring wind and rain, and it would take them more than half a month to return to the Holy Kingdom.

The thought of that long and arduous journey made each of the men in brown robes look even darker.

As he watched the men in brown robes leave, Saint Oran's composed expression crumbled instantly. He abruptly stood up, his knee knocking over the wine glass in front of him. The dark red liquid spread across the table, dripping down the edge and onto the white carpet like a pool of dried blood.

"Someone!" he growled. "Go and fetch Angre! Now!"

The guards obeyed and left, leaving Saint Oran alone in the council chamber. He rested his hands on the table, head bowed, his chest heaving.

He is afraid.

If Dante is truly dead, there's still room for maneuver. But if Dante isn't dead, and discovers it was all part of his conspiracy…

Saint Oran dared not think any further.

About half an hour later, Duke Angre's obese figure appeared at the entrance of the council chamber. He walked in panting, fine beads of sweat on his forehead, the collar of his white robe open, revealing his greasy neck.

"Your Majesty, you wanted to see me?" Angré tried to make his tone sound relaxed, but the slight tremor in his voice betrayed his unease.

Saint Oran abruptly raised his head, his eyes bloodshot, like a cornered beast. He walked around the table, strode up to Angel, grabbed him by the collar, the thick fabric crumpled in his clenched fist.

"I'm asking you," Saint Oran's voice was low, yet it sounded like a growl squeezed from the depths of his throat, "did that evil god kill Dante?"

Angre was gripped so tightly he could hardly breathe. His thick lips trembled a few times before he finally managed to squeeze out a sentence: "Your Majesty... I don't know either..."

"I don't know!?" Saint Oran shoved him aside, and Angre staggered a few steps, crashing into a pillar behind him with a dull thud. "Didn't you swear to me that thing could kill Dante? Now you're telling me you don't know?"

Angre, clutching his aching back, forced a fawning smile: "Your Majesty, please calm down. I was also deceived by those dark mages..."

"Don't give me that nonsense!" Saint Oran interrupted him, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm asking you, is Dante dead or not?"

Angre was silent for a moment, then shook his head with difficulty: "Your Majesty... I am not sure."

Saint Oran closed his eyes, took a deep breath, as if trying to suppress the surging anger within him. After a long while, he reopened his eyes, staring coldly at Angre: "Explain yourself."

Angre swallowed hard and recounted everything that had happened in the wine cellar. From the blood crystal being switched with a magic crystal, to the tumor mutating, to the evil god bursting forth and slaughtering all the dark mages, and finally Dante disappearing with the evil god in a pillar of light.

"...Fara was the only one who escaped." Angre's voice trailed off. "According to him, the magic crystals mixed in with the blood crystals caused unpredictable mutations in the evil god's fetus during its development. That thing... was born with intellectual disabilities and was extremely violent. When it hatched, it killed everyone in the wine cellar."

Saint Oran's face turned ashen upon hearing this. He grabbed a wine glass from the table and smashed it to the ground, sending crystal shards flying that reflected a shimmering light in the candlelight.

"Useless! A bunch of useless trash!" he roared, his voice echoing in the empty council chamber.

Angre shrank back, barely daring to breathe, fearing that the enraged king would vent his fury on him.

After a long while, Saint Oran gradually calmed down. He slumped back into his chair, supporting his forehead with his hands, his voice tired and hoarse: "What do we do now?"

Angre cautiously raised his head and tentatively said, "Your Majesty, my men found a huge burnt ring in the wheat field. Judging from the marks, it should have been left by some kind of high-level teleportation magic. I speculate that His Majesty the Emperor was most likely teleported to another place along with that evil god, and should... not be dead yet."

"Should?" Saint Oran sneered. "I don't want 'should,' I want 'certainty'!"

"I am incompetent," Angre said, bowing his head.

Saint Oran remained silent for a long time; the only sound in the council chamber was the crackling of the candlelight. Finally, he removed his crown and tossed it onto the table with a heavy thud.

"Get out." He waved his hand, his voice full of exhaustion.

Angre felt as if he had been granted a pardon and quickly bowed and retreated. As he reached the door, he heard Saint Oran's soft voice behind him: "Those brown-robed messengers, do not move them for now."

"I understand," Angre replied, his obese figure disappearing into the shadows outside the door.