Chapter 49: A Shower of Apples and Champagne

“Apprentice.”

“Do you want to join us?”

Amidst the blaze, the man clutched Roland’s neck and effortlessly lifted him up.

Roland struggled against his grasp, his legs kicking instinctively.

Strength was not his forte.

“Listen…”

“Someone’s playing the flute…”

The man extended his long tongue and traced words across Roland’s cheek with its tip.

“Join us…”

“What the Father of All cannot give, the Mother can. We are…”

Roland forced the fingers off his neck and gasped for air.

“Fine, I’ll join! Don’t kill me!”

The cultist was taken aback.

They stared at each other, falling into an uneasy silence.

“An unpredictable turn of events.”

Indeed, the cultist had never expected a direct acceptance—usually it would be something like, “You’re dead to me, villain! Even if I die, I’ll return to the Eden of the Father of All,” and so on.

“Roland, you should find a chance to leave.”

“You can’t save them.”

At that moment, the flickering words sharpened abruptly.

“You should leave.”

The flames grew sharper, clawing and swelling within his sight.

This meant the threat was serious.

“You wouldn’t be foolish enough to confront a Ring Initiate head-on, would you?”

“Survival is paramount—you still have a chance to retreat.”

“Now, do as I say:”

“First, sever his hand.”

“Then move. You should have noticed his flaw—he can’t run fast.”

“There are five shots left in the Spider’s Kiss; it’s enough to hold him off for a while.”

“There are two sturdy meat shields in the washroom—use them as targets, and you should be able to escape with minor injuries—he won’t catch you.”

“Understand?”

“Do as I say…”

“Roland?”

Roland opened his mouth but made no sound.

Curious, the cultist leaned closer, pressing his ear near.

“A desperate strug—”

*Pft.*

Roland wrapped one arm around his neck in an embrace, while the other gripped a dagger backward, plunging the blade deep into his brain.

The dagger pierced the back of his head, twisting its jagged edge several times.

He melted away once more.

Blood roared.

Feeling deceived, the cultist erupted like a volcano, transforming one hand into a hard spike, stabbing fiercely into Roland’s abdomen before violently swinging him aside.

*Bang!*

Roland crashed through the door panel, tumbling into the washroom.

He felt as if his spine was about to break; his abdomen was icy cold, wet fluids steadily flowing out.

As Roland was thrown in, two women emitted sharp, brief cries—

Beatrice crouched on the floor, while Cherie used the moment to shatter the glass in Beatrice’s hand, picking up a shard as a weapon.

“Roland!”

Cherie crawled over and grasped Roland’s hand; upon seeing his bleeding abdomen, she hurriedly searched for a towel.

“You’re the weakest Burner I’ve ever seen.”

The man stepped on shards as he approached; his flowing blood twisted and seemed to possess life.

Roland gasped, “You’re the most handsome cultist I’ve ever seen.”

“Repaying evil with kindness—admirable,” the flames sneered sarcastically.

“Miss Nina said sincerity is the best weapon.”

“You’ve mastered how to joke anytime—are you giving up on living?!”

The pale text appeared faster and faster, nearly leaping from his sight.

It had never burned so fiercely.

---

“Wrench, I found his weakness.”

“Trust me.”

“I have a way to…”

“There’s no way!”

“I’m deluding myself that I can solo him—why are you ignoring the two godsend targets?”

“Roland?”

The white flames blazed higher; the text grew larger.

The cultist glanced with interest at the stunned Beatrice, then at Cherie glaring at him. He bent down, seizing Roland’s neck again and lifting him.

“I’ve never killed a Burner. Ladies, have you ever killed anyone?”

He rubbed his lips, watching the struggling boy, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “At least you’ll get to see it with your own eyes…”

At that moment, Cherie suddenly shouted outside the door.

“Mingsi!”

The cultist turned his head.

A man hunched over, tiptoeing stealthily, was slipping out of the hall.

Mingsi Chloe.

His suit was tattered, hair disheveled over his forehead; his arm appeared scraped by a sharp edge, bleeding slightly.

Overall, no serious injuries.

“Damn it! You—” He panicked at being found out, cursing, “You bitch!” Then he bowed obsequiously to the cultist, “Please, do as you wish… I beg you…”

“Save me! Mingsi!”

“Shut up! Sir, please let me go… I saw nothing…”

“Mingsi…”

The cultist watched the man bowing and nodding, moving step by step along the wall, leaving the hall.

Then he turned back, playfully scrutinizing the stunned women.

Cherie had never felt more desperate than at this moment.

Yet then she noticed Roland lightly nudging her with his heel.

At the same time, something cold slipped into her skirt.

It was wrapped in thick layers of fabric, bounced twice by her petticoat, silent.

“So, it’s just the two of us now.”

The cultist turned his head, staring at Roland’s pale face, allowing him to plunge the dagger again—

No.

This time, Roland didn’t aim for the head or neck.

He severed the cultist’s hand, letting himself fall to the ground. Then, both hands dug into the carpet, crawling outward.

A long trail of blood marked his path.

Survival. Struggle.

To live.

A fragile creature.

The man leisurely dusted his shoulder, waiting for the blood to re-harden into a hand, then followed slowly like a cat toying with a mouse.

From this angle, he faced Roland but had his back to Cherie and Beatrice.

“I’ve seen many Burners, but you’re the weakest.”

“What’s your name?”

“Maybe I should return your head to your… brothers and sisters?”

He stepped on Roland’s hand, squatted before him, watching him weakly struggle like a fish out of water in the desert.

The man laughed loudly, tilting his head, admiring the cruel scene he’d created.

In the flames, a second layer of his skin peeled away.

Revealing a third face beneath.

“You—”

“It seems you still don’t understand the greatness of the Mother, apprentice.”

He rubbed his hands, picked up a serrated meat-cutting knife from the floor, twirling it.

“I will peel your skin off.”

“If you’re not dead, I’ll spare your life.”

He flipped Roland over, forcing him to lie face-up on the ground, the blade tip hovering over his face as if deciding where to strike.

“My time is short; let’s begin quickly.”

Suddenly, he noticed Roland’s expression growing unusually calm.

Those amber eyes gazed at him as if piercing through his body, looking far beyond.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

The cultist’s face darkened.

“I’ll gouge out your eyes first…”

He raised the knife.

*Bang!*

Before the sound reached the ears, a bullet streaked from behind with a gleaming silver trail.

The spinning projectile entered the back of the man’s head, shredding his brain, leaving a buttonhole-sized hole in his forehead.

Grayish liquid mixed with powdery residue dripped from the wound.

He trembled, his arms and legs convulsing.

Instinctively, he tried to grasp something, struggling to stand, but collapsed sideways.

He knocked over a table, sending porcelain bottles and a flower basket crashing onto the carpet.

Then—

Thud.

He fell to the floor, struggling for a few seconds before falling silent.

“Sure enough, only immune to detectable attacks…”

Roland murmured, lying face-up.

“Almost died!”

Flickering words covered nearly his entire vision, merging into exclamation marks that grew larger and larger in his sight.

Then, like a burst bubble, they all popped and vanished.

“Roland!!”

Cherie rushed over, one hand gripping the Spider’s Kiss, the other holding Beatrice, staggering.

The shot she fired from behind saved Roland—and herself.

“A precise shot, Detective Cherie.”

“I told you when I was young, my father often took me hunting… Roland, what time is it!”

She dropped the gun, knelt beside Roland, hands pressed to his abdomen, tears falling drop by drop.

She cried and cursed, overwhelmed, her hands soaked in blood.

Roland’s pain had dulled into numbness.

His mind grew unusually active; his soul seemed to leave his body, no longer confined by flesh.

He suddenly recalled something.

“Cherie, that gun has a slight problem. You might experience some mild symptoms, like numbness, dizziness, vomiting, spasms…”

“Vomit—”

Roland: …

Cherie: …

He sighed.

Beatrice knelt on his other side.

The dirt-smudged girl stared at Roland’s face, as if realizing something grave had happened, obediently wanting to wipe the blood off—but before her hand touched his face, she shivered.

“Roland.”

She slowly shifted position, from half-crouch to sitting on her heels, gazing at the boy lying face-up, tears uncontrollably rolling down her cheeks.

Roland: ?

“It’s raining.”

Roland: …

Did you all agree on this?

“An unusually unique way of showing gratitude.”

“Wrench.”

“Do you have a cleaning function…”

“Far from you.”

“Besides, didn’t you always love the rain? You swore by it before.”

“Tell me, Roland.”

“Apple rain or champagne rain, which do you prefer?”

“Shut up.”

“I’m in so much pain, Wrench…”

“Then of course I have to shut up—opening your mouth now would be a problem.”

Roland: …

“Are you not angry anymore?”

The words vanished again.