msmithbooks Chapter 74 Diligent, Too Diligent
Chapter 74 Diligent, Too Diligent
Chapter 74 Diligent, Too Diligent
After the door closed, there was a twenty-second silence in the room.
Roman Nakur was still sitting on the sofa, the leather-bound book on his lap weighing heavily.
He stared at the empty sofa opposite him, as if Lucien Alden were still sitting there, legs crossed, speaking in that lazy tone.
"Who shares your master?"
Roman slowly raised his hand and pressed it against his forehead.
Dry skin, no sweat.
Of course, there was no urine either.
He should be angry, or at least feel offended.
A heretic, carrying an email that could barely be called a letter of introduction, barged into his territory, drank his fresh holy blood, and then left behind a statement that was almost a declaration of war.
But he was just confused.
The saying that those who are closest to God are the least believers in God applies to him.
He has presided over more than 300 purification ceremonies, and the unclean samples he has personally processed have filled three cold storage rooms in the church's basement.
He is familiar with the texture of every bone and can distinguish the subtle differences in color between Gundams of different ages, genders, and races after processing.
But he had never witnessed a miracle.
Not even once.
No voices whisper in dreams, no lights appear during prayers, and no wounds heal automatically after rituals.
Those divine revelations written in the scriptures, those visions claimed by the prophets of the past to have seen with their own eyes, were merely texts to him, tools, narrative frameworks used to construct order and maintain control.
So when Lucien asked, "Have you seen God?", he couldn't answer.
So when the young man leaned closer, his breath carrying the sweet, metallic scent of holy blood, and asked him if he wanted to see the divine kingdom—
Roman's fingers tightened, and the book cover made a slight rubbing sound.
He wanted to nod.
In that instant, something deep in my throat wanted to rush out, like a trapped beast banging against its cage.
But he didn't move.
The heavy burden of forty years of business management bound him:
And then there are those two hundred faces that are constantly being updated, yet all are incredibly similar, like perfect specimens.
Those faces that depend on him for answers.
Now the answer has come, in the most unexpected way.
It is not a metaphor of scripture, nor a symbol of bone carving, but a living, breathing young nobleman who can get drunk, laugh coldly, and threaten people, and may actually have burning stigmata on his body.
And this person had just stepped out of his door.
Roman slowly exhaled.
He stood up, walked to the low cabinet, and picked up the skull cup.
There were still dark red marks on the rim of the cup. He wiped them with his index finger and put them in his mouth.
The smell of rust mixed with the slightly sweet taste of preservative solution.
He put the cup back where it was.
"Are you trying to outwit me?"
He said in a low voice.
What is the magical combat of the 502 sect?
It was a shotgun loaded with bullets that had been grazed by holy water, aimed directly at the face.
Or perhaps the blessed M1 tank was completely destroyed by direct artillery fire.
Lucien Alden didn't want this kind of battle, nor was this the kind of battle he wanted.
Roman walked back to his desk and pressed the internal communication button.
"Maria,"
He said, "Check Mr. Alden's address."
"And presented a gift, and scheduled a visit for tomorrow."
After hanging up, he sat back in his chair and placed his hands folded on the table.
As darkness fell outside the window, the streetlights of Salt Lake City lit up one by one, their light perfectly uniform, as if measured with a ruler.
The city he had managed for twenty years, the promised land known as "New Zion," suddenly seemed somewhat fragile.
He watched the scene of President Milk Dragon turning back to his youth during the live broadcast seventeen times.
Slow down, zoom in, and analyze changes in light angle and skin texture.
There are no signs of editing, and no projection effects.
The journalists' collective frenzy seemed unplanned; no director could simultaneously control over forty seasoned media professionals from different camps.
That's true.
Roman closed his eyes.
No matter what the other party wants, he has to make contact again.
The cornerstone of the 502 cult's doctrine is that "America is the final land chosen by God." If miracles happen elsewhere, to a playboy from New York, or to a president in Washington who talks big but doesn't follow the truth, then the cult's doctrine is flawed.
Then Salt Lake City, the fortress, would lose its sacredness.
Believers can accept hardship and strict rules, but they cannot accept that they have gambled on the wrong faith.
He can mobilize public opinion to vilify the other party, labeling them as a "false prophet" or "incarnation of Satan."
But as long as miracles continue to happen, and as long as those people continue to demonstrate extraordinary power, the label will gradually lose its effectiveness.
People will eventually turn to a god who can provide real feedback, not a prophet who can only carve bones.
Moreover, such miracles have the potential to grow.
From aging to rejuvenation, Milk Dragon transforms from a spoiled brat to someone with an almost arrogant confidence.
This means that the "Master" does not manifest all at once, but rather intervenes continuously.
The Lord is truly watching.
The thought made Roman's stomach tighten.
It wasn't fear, but a mixture of longing, jealousy, and a strong sense of crisis.
He needs to get a ticket.
As night fell completely, Lucien Alden was walking down the main street of Salt Lake City.
The streets are clean, the streetlights are precisely spaced, and there is a garbage sorting bin every twenty meters along the sidewalk.
Most of the windows were already dark; it was only 8:30 p.m.
He slowed his pace, allowing the sensation of the [Extreme Wave] to spread like a tide.
The sensory tentacles first swept across the houses on both sides of the street.
Warm, orderly, a kind of suffocating calm.
Couples are engaged in biological labor, singles are kneeling in prayer, and children are humming hymns.
diligence.
So diligent.
He's too diligent.
He twitched the corner of his mouth and continued walking forward.
The sensing range expands, radiating outwards to cover the entire urban area, and then overflows, spreading to the hilly areas surrounding the city.
Then he stopped.
"Oh ho."
He said softly.
The sensory feedback coming from the hills is completely different from that in the city.
It wasn't a uniform calm, but a thick, chaotic, boiling soup of emotions:
The will to survive tore at reason, the anger of helplessness burned in the chest, the desperate wails echoed in the shadows, and the extreme fear solidified into a cold, hard lump.
He was all too familiar with these emotions.
That's the feeling inside those meatpacking plant caves in Atlanta.
However, the scale here seems larger and denser, like an entire hilly area that has been hollowed out and turned into a container.
He turned and left the main road, heading towards the outskirts of the city.
His bronze-level physical abilities meant he didn't need to consider the terrain.
Avoid the road, go directly through the green belt, climb over the fence, and enter the wilderness.
As its speed increased, its figure became a blurry gray shadow in the night, sweeping past dry bushes and exposed rock formations.
The plains were boring; the neat field ridges and irrigation canals looked like grids drawn by a machine.
Ten minutes later, he reached the edge of the hill.
Looking up from the foot of the hill, these hills appear to be just typical Utah landscape:
The gentle slopes are covered with low pine forests and drought-resistant shrubs, and the exposed rock strata are iron-red.
But in his perception, these hills and ravines were brimming with emotion.
He found a well-trodden path, hidden away, with the entrance camouflaged with dead branches.
Walking up the path for fifty meters, something appeared in a clearing in the woods.
A small ceramic niche sits atop a stone base, about knee-high.
Inside the niche was a roughly carved bone statue of a deity, with three frosted apples placed in front of it, which looked surprisingly fresh.
He actually recognized some of the patterns on them.
"Is it called the Flying Bird Pattern or something? Oh, so this thing isn't only found in Atlanta."
After looking around for a while, he turned around and walked along the path.
Length of night.
>