Outside the Intelligence Institute's gate, people bustle in and out every day; after the Holy Guards it's the busiest department—at least to outsiders. Inside, you can still see plenty of folks sipping tea and chatting.
Harold strolled up, looking relaxed. When the intelligence staff saw him, they greeted him respectfully: "Archpriest Harold, good morning!"
"Morning, Duncan!"
"Morning…"
Harold exchanged greetings with every one of them, never putting on airs because of his rank.
He reached the third-floor office, opened the door, and settled behind his desk.
Knock-knock-knock!
A few minutes later the door sounded. Lounging in his chair, Harold drawled, "Come in."
Creak!
The door opened and a young Caucasian in black entered carrying a tray with freshly brewed coffee and a sandwich.
"Archpriest Harold, your breakfast." He set the tray down respectfully and turned to leave.
Harold eyed the youth and suddenly asked, "Joe, how long have you been here?"
Joe paused mid-step. Puzzled, he still answered, "Archpriest Harold, it's been a year."
Harold leaned back. "A year? By rights you should be out gathering intel, yet lately you've only poured coffee and swept floors—servants' work."
Joe gave a helpless smile. "They say my brain's too slow for this line of work; I can only handle odd jobs and serve you, Archpriest Harold."
Harold merely chuckled. Joe was Houseman's nephew, and while his tasks were menial, his salary was three or four times that of ordinary agents—on par with the elite—without any risk. Another perk: the kid also spied on him.
Harold pointed at a huge painting behind the door. "Like the picture?"
Joe turned, puzzled. When had that appeared? The office hadn't had it before, and Harold hadn't brought anything in.
He studied the canvas: a grey haze in which stood a figure in Red Bridal Robes and Red Veil, only pale hands visible.
An inexplicable dread rose in him; the painting felt lethally dangerous.
As he stared, the grey mist stirred and a hideous, blotched face with dead-white eyes thrust forward to meet his gaze.
"Aah!" Joe recoiled in terror.
"What's wrong, Joe?" Harold asked innocently.
Joe stammered, pointing: "A-Ar—Archpriest Harold, there's a ghost in that painting!"
"Ghost? Where? You must be seeing things." Harold stood, feigning bewilderment.
"R-right there!" Joe yelled at the canvas.
Harold looked at him as if he were an idiot, leaving Joe nonplussed.
A bad feeling crept over him. He glanced back—the grotesque face was gone; the picture looked perfectly ordinary.
Harold patted his shoulder. "You're tired, son. How about a week off to rest?"
"Archpriest Harold, I-I…" Joe wondered if last night's excesses had caused hallucinations.
Refusing the offer, he muttered, "I'm fine—must've imagined it. I'll go now, Archpriest Harold."
"Take care of yourself," Harold said, watching Joe leave with an inscrutable smile.
With Houseman away on assignment and rarely here, Harold could only use Joe to eliminate him.
Their close family tie and shared workplace meant plenty of contact; once the Ghost Bride disposed of them, no suspicion would fall on him.
Night fell. Joe left the Institute, dazed. Ever since seeing that eerie painting, his head ached and his mind wandered.
"Damn that painting," he muttered. "Even my kidney pills can't make me this foggy."
"Could it be a source artifact? Harold saved Oliver—giving him one isn't impossible." The thought chilled him.
His uncle was a Source-Artifact User; the previous Sacrifice Master of the Institute had been a commoner and naturally yielded to artifact users.
But if Harold now wielded a source artifact, Houseman's standing might be threatened.
"I must tell Uncle Houseman. Harold's no simpleton—he has to take this seriously!" Joe turned toward his uncle's residence.
As he walked he scratched his left cheek—it itched unbearably.
Twenty minutes later he stood before a twenty-storey tower.
Bathed in night light, the cream-coloured building rose floor-by-floor; each floor was a single apartment. Hoburn City's elite lived here, most windows glowing amber.
Blue-uniformed, capped guards watched the entrance.
Joe strode up; the guards beamed. "Good evening, Mr. Joe. Visiting Mr. Houseman again?"
"Let me in." Joe nodded absently, still clawing his left cheek until it bled.
The guard bowed obsequiously and opened the iron gate.
Inside, a lift stood waiting, attended by a youth in red livery. "Ninth floor again, Mr. Joe?"
"Mm." Joe felt the mental pressure mounting; his nails had broken the skin.
Ding! The attendant inserted a key, pressed nine, and the doors opened.
Joe stepped inside, clawing at his face.
Meanwhile, on the ninth floor Houseman pored over reports in his study; he usually worked from home.
"Seven Rings just won't behave—already sticking their hands in here." He frowned at the yellowed paper.
Near Hoburn City, agents had spotted one of the Three Kings under Yang Yi of the Fifth Ring—apparently unconcerned with hiding.
"Each of the Three Kings is a Dominator-level powerhouse. The only thing worth their presence is that strange White-Fog City." Houseman's mind raced.
When the white fog first appeared, Harold's report had passed through many hands; its leakage was no surprise.
'I must see the Patriarch—can't let them run wild here.' He rose, took a turquoise fez from the rack, and strode out.
"Houseman, heading out again?" a gentle female voice called.
His perpetual severity melted into a smile as a voluptuous, golden-haired woman in a white gown appeared.
"I'll be back soon," he said.
Ding-dong! At that moment the doorbell rang.