Chapter 177: A Work of Decency

Chapter 177: A Work of Decancy

The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to slow down after the announcement.

Benson Helbert’s eyes narrowed into a stone-cold glare. The air inside the office suddenly grew heavy, pressing down on Mo Fei’s shoulders as the invisible spiritual pressure of an experienced Captain emerged.

"Mr. Sherlock..." Benson’s voice turned low, laced with an edge of stern reprimand. "You are an intelligence officer, not a reckless adventurer. Lionel also saw that your understanding is good, but at this moment... We are talking about a walking calamity. If he is truly an Angel of the Death Authority, then it can harvest the souls of this entire borough with a single breath. To approach him voluntarily is not bravery; it is a rapid descent into loss of control. You know that very well how terrible it is."

Old Bai, having just swallowed his blue pills, let out a soft chuckle. "Meet Him? Young man, if you stand within five paces of a true Angel of the Underworld without divine protection, your flesh will melt into stagnant water and your bones will start singing hymns to the dead before you can even say one letter."

Mo Fei maintained his polite, reserved expression, though his left hand quietly tightened. Of course, he had expected this reaction. To the orthodox or semi-orthodox factions, an Angel was an untouchable, absolute taboo, but Mo Fei wasn’t an ordinary Ascended anymore. He was the host of the Lenormand Club, and he had already stared into the abyss of a true deity’s manifestation and survived. With the Divine protection of the spirit world, he could probably survive... somehow.

"I understand the risks, Captain." Mo Fei replied with a polite small smile, adapting his tone to match the cautious, logical style of a university scholar. "But if this Angel is truly in a state of amnesia, a blunt, aggressive approach by the Church or a sealed artifact will inevitably trigger his defensive instincts, right? A cornered mythical being would destroy Ciradyl, and with our current power dynamics, are we capable of handling that? However, an ordinary human approach... that is a thread of humanity he might cling to. I have met Him before; He is a professional man, please let me handle it first."

Benson stared at Mo Fei for a minute. The silence in the office slowly receded. The Captain heaved a slow, exhausted sigh, the rigid tension in his shoulders dropping. He finally thought of it seriously, considering Mo Fei’s words.

"Well then, Mr. Sherlock. I will give you forty-eight hours to rest and observe from a distance, but..." Benson gestured with his hand and continued. "The moment his spiritual frequency fluctuates, or the moment you feel the slightest hint of auditory hallucinations, you pull back. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, Captain. Thank you for the trust." Mo Fei bowed politely, adjusting his silk top hat. "May the Great Mother protect us."

"Ah, wait for a minute, take this with you." Old Bai called out, pulling out a mystical artifact, shaped like a twisted tornado. "This is an artifact connected to the walls of the organization; if you feel danger, awaken it so it will inform us."

"Great thing." He gave old Bai a gentle nod, taking the artifact.

Stepping out of the office, Mo Fei walked down the spiral staircase. At the reception desk, Lionel was still lazily flipping his brass coin, his green eyes tracking Mo Fei with a knowing, unbothered smirk. Mo Fei gave him a brief, casual nod while staying away from him so he wouldn’t approach him to give a headache. He pushed past the heavy oaken door, stepping back out into the misty, rain-slicked streets of Ciradyl’s industrial district.

The moment he turned the corner into a deserted, fog-covered alleyway between two towering brick warehouses, the scholarly aura around Mo Fei dissolved.

His posture shifted. His polite, middle-class elegance bled away, replaced by an unnervingly calm, brutal, and calculated presence as he wore the Mask of Abyss. The logic of Mo Fei receded into the background, and the terrifying persona of the detective, Murphy Law, took full control of the physical vessel.

Murphy reached into the inner pocket of his charcoal vest and pulled out a few pennies.

He closed his eyes and allowed his spiritual perception to expand outward, sinking past the physical material of the brick walls and dipping into the overlapping illusions of the Spirit World.

In the real world, Asterion — the wealthy, high-ranking funder of a horrific demonic cult — had been thoroughly killed during their previous clash. Although Murphy hadn’t just taken Asterion’s life; he had plundered the hidden assets of his company.

The cult founder’s part of wealth, totaling a staggering 25,000 pounds, was currently sealed inside a conceptual coordinate within the Spirit World, hidden away from any prying eyes.

To an ordinary citizen, 25,000 pounds was an astronomical fortune... enough to buy a lavish estate in the capital and live like nobility for three lifetimes. At that moment, to Murphy Law, the tainted money from a demonic cult was nothing more than a volatile tool that needed to be repurposed, even though he had stolen it, but he didn’t want to use the corrupted money.

A detective must maintain the reputation. Murphy thought. ’Dirty money must be washed in the tears of the innocent to finally give it a worth.

Taking a public carriage toward the affluent North Borough and the crowded Lower District, Murphy began his silent distribution.

His first stop was the Saint Marie Orphanage, a run-down, soot-stained building where children of deceased factory workers huddled for warmth.

Standing across the street under the shadow of a gas lamp, Murphy flipped his collar up.

He entered inside quietly and moved throughout the path, reaching toward the counter. He looked through the window, seeing that the day was passing fast and it was already late evening.

Murphy Law glided past the squeaking floorboards. When he reached the main office, he found the matron — a frail woman in a patched woolen shawl — slumped over a wooden desk, fast asleep under the dim, flickering amber glow of an oil lamp. Maybe tired of working and taking care of the children had exhausted her as she lay asleep.

Murphy’s gaze lay before her, an open ledger filled with mounting debts and unpaid milk rations. He simply closed his eyes for a second, thinking of his steps.

Without waking her, he stepped forward. He hovered his hand in the air as suddenly the heavy wooden box appeared in his hand, then he carefully put the box on the counter and covered it with a nearby towel. As he noticed the shivering of the woman, he quietly walked toward another piece of cloth and covered her with it from the wind.

Afterward, he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and withdrew a paper envelope. On the front, in sharp, blocky handwriting that bore no resemblance to Mo Fei’s script, he had penned a few lines. ’For the children’s winter coal and your dedicated work. A sinner’s penance: pay all the debts and give children education.’

As he slipped back out into the fog, the cold air of autumn bit into his face.

His second stop was the Ciradyl Free Hospital, followed by the Metropolitan Animal Care Home. The remaining 10000 pounds were split evenly between them, delivered anonymously into their donation boxes through precise, illusion-assisted movements with a letter in each one.

***

The matron woman stirred, slowly waking up from her sleep. The first thing her gaze lay on was the bills as she took a long sigh. Her expression remained exhausted and worried about payments. Previously she had prayed to any God she could think of, but none of those truly worked.

She quietly moved her hand toward the nearby glass without looking, but instead of glass, her hand hit something hard. She blinked and turned to see.

It was a box covered in red towel; her eyes quickly looked at herself; she was covered with a blanket. Her hand gripped it tightly. Reaching her trembling hand toward the envelope, she quietly opened it and read it through.

The woman’s expression shifted; she pressed her lips together and opened the box, expecting a prank, but to surprise her... inside were real money.

Her heart almost stopped beating as she quickly moved and walked outside, trying to find whoever had put it there. She looked at the letter again, but there was no name...

Staring at the box again, her eyes softened, and she thanked the man inwardly.

***

What he had currently done was not as simple as it seemed. It wasn’t an advancement or anything, but Mo Fei found it a necessary purification of his environment, maybe a cleansing of the karmic footprints left by his detective persona.

By night, the light blue twilight of Ciradyl had morphed into a cold starry sky.

Murphy’s long coat, draped over his shoulders to hide his heavily bandaged right arm, stepped off a final horse-drawn carriage.

He stood before a set of decorative iron gates. Beyond the gates lay a sprawling estate of Gothic-style structures, manicured lawns, and ancient willow trees dripping with dew.

A tarnished silver sign on the stone pillar read, "The Lakeview Institute of Arts."

The atmosphere here was thoroughly different from the industrial docks or the bustling city streets.

Murphy adjusted the brim of his fedora as he finally walked through the iron gates, stepping into the university of the literary world.