Mr. Hoffen lay on the ground, Orpheus standing over him. At this moment, if Orpheus wished, he could send Mr. Hoffen on his way a little early.
Because Mr. Hoffen's earlier expression and words had put him under immense pressure.
Being reborn in this world, Orpheus lacked a sense of security. Up to now, he had been surviving by relying on this "identity." Once he lost this skin, who knew what kind of unknown life he would spiral into.
And it wasn't just the ordinary "life" at stake here; there were clearly factors beyond Orpheus's understanding.
If it were just about "running away from home," Orpheus wouldn't be under such stress. But the fear was, it wasn't as simple as "being driven out of the house." It couldn't be that simple!
Orpheus felt a sort of anxious unease akin to a medieval witch fearing for her life.
He stepped forward,
bent down,
and reached out his hand.
Just one squeeze around the neck,
or lifting Mr. Hoffen's head and pretending to wake him up while bashing it again against the tiles would be enough to finish him off.
Then,
this sudden crisis could vanish before it swallowed him whole.
So,
should he do it?
Having such thoughts isn't unusual. Even the most ordinary, normal, and gentle people have moments of sudden emotional outbursts and dark thoughts in life.
But in the end,
Orpheus stood still, unmoving.
When Mina came down from the second floor and started calling for help, when Aunt Mary came up from the basement, when Paul rushed over to pick up Mr. Hoffen,
Orpheus only came to his senses at Aunt Mary's shouting and helped lift Mr. Hoffen into the Immolras family's hearse.
Paul started the car, and Orpheus stayed in the back, accompanying Mr. Hoffen.
This modified "shell" car was an extended version of a standard sedan. The front passenger seat had been removed long ago, creating ample space for a coffin.
Mr. Hoffen lay there, motionless.
He was lucky; ambulances were not common in this era. He had a car ready to take him to the nearest hospital right away.
Even luckier... even if he didn't make it, he'd have a ride back—his own dedicated transport.
They might even offer a discount on his funeral services, considering his relationship with Grandpa. The only one who would suffer would be Aunt Mary.
"Heh…"
Orpheus suddenly chuckled, reaching up to rub his face.
Just then, the golden retriever that had followed its owner onto the car moved over to Mr. Hoffen's side and licked his fingers.
After rubbing against its owner for a while, it slowly walked up to Orpheus.
Orpheus extended his hand, and the dog didn't back away, letting him stroke its head.
It seemed to enjoy the petting, lying down beside Orpheus's legs. When Orpheus stopped petting it, the dog nudged his hand with its nose, signaling for him to continue.
"Sigh…"
Orpheus glanced at the prone Mr. Hoffen, sighing.
He leaned back against the wall of the car,
scratching the dog's head.
"Whatever."
…
The car pulled into the hospital, and Mr. Hoffen was rushed into the emergency room.
Paul busied himself with the paperwork,
while Orpheus sat with the golden retriever on a bench by the flowerbed.
After about half an hour, Paul came jogging over with a smile on his face:
"Master Orpheus, the doctor said Mr. Hoffen is still in a coma but has been stabilized."
Orpheus let out a long breath, feeling slightly relieved but also somewhat disappointed.
This old man had really clung to life—so much blood, yet he had pulled through.
"The bill has been charged to the family account," Paul added.
The Immolras family's funeral home had a good relationship with the nearby hospital.
How good was it?
Aunt Winnie, who managed the family finances, even had a list of patients in critical condition at the hospital.
Sometimes, even while you were still being resuscitated, Uncle Mason would be smoking in the parking lot, waiting.
Where there is profit, there will be a chain.
With this kind of connection, paperwork moved quickly.
"Do we need to hire someone to watch him?" Orpheus asked.
"Uh… we can get a caregiver."
"Then get one."
"Okay, Master, I'll take care of it."
"By the way, Paul, do you have a cigarette?"
"I do... Master, would you like one?"
"Yes."
Paul handed over half a pack of cigarettes along with a lighter.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome, sir. I'll go arrange the caregiver."
"Okay."
Orpheus took out a cigarette and held it in his mouth. During this time, smoking bans weren't strict. Even in the hospital courtyard, Orpheus saw several people with cigarettes in their mouths, and passing nurses didn't scold them.
He lit the cigarette and took a drag.
His brain once again sent out warnings of "toxin" invasion, and his body reacted with nausea and dry heaving.
But Orpheus ignored it.
He felt as though he were just like the "smoking" habit—utterly foolish.
A seasoned smoker who had forced himself to endure the discomfort had learned a habit that continuously harmed his body;
And he,
had sent Mr. Hoffen to the hospital, stabilizing his condition, watching as he himself stepped deeper into an unknown abyss.
He was reflecting on himself, but not too harshly.
He was also regretting, but not too deeply.
He felt he was foolish; yes, that feeling was incredibly strong.
"Phew…"
Orpheus leaned back on the bench, holding the burning cigarette between his fingers.
At that moment,
a shadow suddenly appeared in front of him. Orpheus froze, realizing the cigarette was taken from his fingers.
"You... Grandpa?"
Standing before Orpheus was Deese.
He was still wearing the clothes he had on when he left, but Orpheus noticed that his pant legs were stained with what looked like dirt, and the hand holding Orpheus's cigarette seemed to have black smudges on it?
Was it mud?
Deese threw the cigarette to the ground and asked,
"When did you learn?"
"I..." Orpheus hesitated. He had an impulse to tell "Grandpa" the "truth" just now because he instinctively connected today's "dream," Mr. Hoffen's "questioning" him, and other incidents, feeling an unusual vibe.
After all, Grandpa Deese and Mr. Hoffen were old friends.
It wasn't that he was worried about Mr. Hoffen telling Grandpa anything when he woke up, but compared to the philosophy-loving or "occult-obsessed" retired teacher, his grandfather, who ran a funeral home and moonlighted as a priest, seemed... no, should be the most mysterious one.
Would Grandpa really be unaware of what Mr. Hoffen knew?
So, would honesty be the best policy?
But looking at Grandpa's face,
Orpheus's "confession" circled around his throat and went back down.
"Uncle Mason taught me."
Deese's eyebrows furrowed slightly.
"Mr. Hoffen is inside. The doctor said he's out of danger," Orpheus reported.
Deese nodded, asking, "Mary told me what happened. Were you scared?"
"No... well... yes, I was scared."
Orpheus's answer was somewhat garbled, but he felt it wasn't his fault.
"I'll go check on him. Wait here."
"Okay, Grandpa."
Deese walked inside.
After about fifteen minutes, Deese returned with Paul. Orpheus stood up and followed them to the parking lot.
"When did you learn to drive?" Deese asked Paul.
"Not long ago. I watched a lot and just learned."
"Do you have a license?"
"I do," Paul answered immediately.
"Starting next month, your salary will go up by a thousand rubies a month."
"Thank you, Mr. Deese, thank you, Mr. Deese."
Paul and Ron had starkly contrasting personalities. Ron loved drinking and gambling and had sneaked off after finishing in the basement, probably hanging out at some bar by now. Paul, on the other hand, had stayed behind to clean the car.
"Let's go home." Deese glanced at Orpheus and repeated, "Home."
Paul drove again, with Orpheus and Deese sitting in the back. With no seats, they sat opposite each other on cushions.
"Should we inform Mr. Hoffen's family, Grandpa?"
"No need. His children cut ties with him long ago and aren't in Rosier City. Check on him again in a few days."
"Okay, Grandpa."
After this brief exchange,
Orpheus saw Deese extend his arm and roll up his sleeve.
To Orpheus's shock, his grandfather's left arm had a third of it turned "black and charred," as if it had been scorched over a fire.
"Tongs," Deese said.
"Huh?" Orpheus blinked, then quickly understood and opened the black box beside his grandfather. Inside was a set of small surgical tools and some items clearly not for everyday use.
For example, several bottles of strange liquids, some crystal beads, a peculiar iron tablet, a whip made of an unknown material... most striking of all was a hollowed-out sword hilt.
The sword hilt had two exquisite carvings, one on each side. On the left was a twisted skull, and on the right, a benevolent saint.
Although the sword hilt had no blade, Orpheus was careful not to touch it, as if an invisible edge could sever his fingers.
Orpheus handed the tongs to his grandfather.
Grandpa took them with his right hand and pinched a corner of the burnt skin on his arm, slowly peeling it away.
Despite the moving vehicle, Orpheus could clearly hear the crisp tearing
sound, like paper being ripped.
The golden retriever huddled in the corner, eyes wide, trembling.
Grandpa, unfazed, peeled off two pieces of charred skin and said,
"Forceps."
"Oh, okay." Orpheus handed him the forceps.
But Grandpa didn't take them, instead offering his hand to Orpheus, along with the tongs.
In "Orpheus's" memory, such a scene had never occurred.
However, after pressing his lips together, Orpheus took the forceps with his right hand and the tongs with his left, using the forceps to lift the charred skin and then pulling it off with the tongs.
Beneath the burnt skin was red, raw flesh, with slight traces of blood.
Throughout,
Deese didn't flinch.
He didn't even show any change in his expression.
Once all the burnt skin was removed, Deese's left arm looked like it had been boiled.
"All done," Orpheus said.
"Mm."
Deese reached for a bottle of purple liquid, flicked off the stopper with his finger, and poured the contents over his left arm.
"Hiss…"
The sound came from Orpheus.
He saw smoke rising from his grandfather's arm, accompanied by the sizzling of oil in a hot pan.
After a while,
Deese exhaled deeply and pulled down his sleeve.
"Don't you need to bandage it?" Orpheus asked with concern.
Deese shook his head.
Orpheus said nothing more, sitting upright.
The car stopped; they were home.
Orpheus led Mr. Hoffen's golden retriever out of the car while Paul parked on the roadside near the gate.
"Mr. Deese, Master Orpheus, I'll head home. I'll come early tomorrow to set up the mourning hall."
"Alright," Deese nodded.
Paul, delighted by his raise, ran off toward his house.
Orpheus stayed by the gate, not in a hurry to go inside, as Deese hadn't entered yet.
The two of them, and a dog,
stood by the gate.
On the third-floor windowsill, Poe stood up, its eyes fixed on them.
Suddenly,
as if the background music of a stage play had abruptly shifted to a different tune,
so abruptly,
yet so clearly,
Orpheus felt his lips start to tremble, his breathing becoming rapid.
The golden retriever, sensing something amiss, looked up at Orpheus, noticing the leash shaking—the hand holding it was trembling.
People have a sixth sense,
be it the wind telling you, the sunlight telling you, even the flowers and plants within the fence telling you.
Orpheus didn't know if dying once and being reborn had heightened his sixth sense. In fact, he didn't have the mental space to ponder such trivialities now.
He felt like a freshly laid egg from the coop, being juggled by a mischievous child.
Run?
Orpheus tried to turn his head to look to the side, where the road lay, leading him to sprint down it.
Then, he tried turning his head the other way, but halfway through, he subconsciously bowed his head.
Lowering his head,
he saw his pant leg.
He also saw Grandpa's left arm.
Most importantly, he saw the sword hilt in Grandpa's left hand, which he clearly remembered putting back in the black box.
In that instant,
Orpheus felt tears well up in his eyes, his nose tingling, as if mucus were about to drip, and his facial muscles twitched.
Before him,
it no longer felt like the Immolras family home at 13 Chiswick Street.
Instead, he stood atop layers of descending ground,
and he was in the center of a high platform, with a gallows beside him.
"Orpheus."
Deese's voice echoed like thunder in his ear.
"G-Grand…"
Orpheus's teeth were chattering.
Yet, in stark contrast, his mind was unnervingly calm—a clash of spirit and flesh.
"Orpheus, where is this place?"
Orpheus opened his mouth,
noticing from the corner of his eye that Grandpa's left arm was already raised, moving behind his back.
In that critical moment,
Orpheus straightened his back,
speaking in a hoarse, low, almost growling voice:
"Home!"