"Boris?"
York was a bit surprised by this and took a serious look at Jeffrey.
Boris was considered the secret contact for the official organization's dealings with the Church.
In certain special matters or supernatural events, he had the right to ask Boris for backup or assistance, and he also had the responsibility to help resolve supernatural events when Boris sought help.
Now, the contact person had actually been changed to Jeffrey.
But on second thought, York felt it made sense; after all, the Jeffrey before him had some connection with him—at least he was someone York had personally saved.
"Yes."
A smile appeared on Jeffrey's face as he looked at the priest he respected and said, "Father Yorkes, if you need help with anything in the future, just let me know. I will definitely carry it out diligently."
York raised an eyebrow slightly. He could sense Jeffrey's sincerity and understood what he meant. Habitually making the sign of the cross, he said seriously,
"I will, Officer Jeffrey."
"Mm." Jeffrey took a deep breath and tilted his head to look at the blood and corpses by the doorway behind them.
"So, do you need our help here?"
Seeing Jeffrey like this, York couldn't help but think of Mr. Woodrow and the others from before. He smiled slightly.
"No need. I've already called a Cleaning Company. They should be here in a moment."
"Ah..." Jeffrey tilted his head back. Dealing with homicide cases regularly, he knew more than the average person.
"I understand."
"Mm."
With his smile unchanged, York began to see his guest out.
"Officer Jeffrey, thank you for coming by."
With three police cars present, those Cleaners who preferred the shadows might not dare to show up.
Jeffrey understood instantly and nodded slightly.
"Goodnight, Father Yorkes. We're heading out."
York made the sign of the cross on his chest.
"Goodnight, Officer Jeffrey. I hope you have sweet dreams. The Lord be with you."
"Thank you."
Jeffrey took one last look at the doorway, nodded in acknowledgment, turned, and strode away.
Under York' gaze, he waved his hand and led all his subordinates back into the police cars. They left the scene shortly after.
Seeing this, York looked to the right. Just then, two vehicles resembling Cleaning Trucks quietly appeared and slowly came to a stop in front of him.
The first to get out was a thin, small old man wearing something like a bucket hat in the middle of the night. He came up to York, took off his hat to reveal thinning, pure white hair, and said respectfully,
"Father Yorkes, it is a pleasure to see you again."
York looked past the old man. Behind him, a group of burly men holding various cleaning tools looked a bit out of place, but very eye-catching.
"Mm, you too, Charlie."
As he spoke, York stepped aside and gestured toward the messy doorway.
"Can you clean this up properly?"
The old man named Charlie gave a reserved chuckle. "No problem, Father Yorkes."
After saying that, the old man gave a slight wave with his right hand, which was holding the bucket hat.
A total of ten burly men behind him, carrying various cleaning tools, immediately set to work and slowly entered the church.
Two men handled the blood, organs, and corpses at the entrance.
The remaining eight went inside.
Watching the cleaning—which was bold and sweeping yet very nimble—York looked at the old man waiting beside him.
"Charlie, how much?"
Hearing this, Charlie hesitated. Cleaners like them, who served assassins, usually collected the currency circulating in the underworld.
If it were to be converted equally, it would be one coin per task, one coin per corpse, one coin per request—even a glass of wine was one coin.
"Well, Father, do you need all clues cleared, or do you require confidentiality services?"
York raised an eyebrow. He knew what that meant; it likely referred to destroying evidence and clues after a killing to ensure official personnel couldn't find anything. Unfortunately, he didn't need that... "Charlie, I don't need that. All I need is your cleaning service." York patted Charlie on the shoulder. "I've heard people say your cleaning is top-notch."
York gave a thumbs-up.
The old man instinctively glanced at the priest beside him. He knew this priest definitely didn't have coins and wasn't part of the assassin world, so he couldn't charge based on the exchange rate of currency to coins. He tentatively suggested a price.
"One hundred and fifty thousand?"
"Eh?"
York was stunned. His current net worth was only a bit over two million. To clean up a few corpses and some 'tomato sauce' for a hundred and fifty thousand? Did he think York was some kind of sucker?
Looking at the old man Charlie beside him, York frowned slightly. In his emotional fluctuation, a massive aura naturally rose.
"Just for this cleaning service? You're sure it's a hundred and fifty thousand??"
"Yes, Father Yorkes..."
Charlie was about to explain their situation, but the subsequent sensation made his pupils shrink. In that instant, he felt a certain change in the priest beside him.
A tall figure, growing as massive as a mountain, seemed to be pressing down on him.
In that one moment, Charlie felt as if he could no longer breathe. While his heart pounded wildly, his head felt like it was swelling to the point of exploding.
That mountain-like heavy pressure instantly plunged him into a miraculous high-pressure zone.
"Charlie?"
The change in the old man was quite obvious, and York noticed it immediately. He quickly withdrew his quietly released Spirit, a look of helplessness flashing in his eyes.
Because in his past life, he had always been a bit obsessive when it came to matters of money.
*Huff...*
The pressure vanished instantly. Charlie felt as if he had just woken from a dream. He gasped for air and slumped to the ground. He looked up at the priest who seemed increasingly unfamiliar—as if he were meeting him for the first time. His heart was filled with nothing but palpitation and dread; he felt that this was a truly terrifying existence.
"Sorry, Charlie. My fault."
York felt a bit apologetic. He reached out and firmly grabbed Charlie's hand, which was trying to pull away, and hauled him up.
"It's mainly because I don't have much money right now. Can you make it a bit cheaper? Give me a discount—seventy thousand?"
Having just endured that wave of pressure, how could Charlie refuse? He didn't even dare to mention their rules and regulations.
"O-O-Okay, Father."
Looking at Charlie, whose attitude had become even more humble as he quietly backed away a few steps, York' lips quirked. He could understand the man's feeling.
The average person's Spirit was only ten points, whereas his Spirit was already eight times the normal state. To put it simply, he basically carried a passive Conqueror's Haki.
Fortunately, he could control his Spirit and selectively control the output; otherwise, he wouldn't be able to go anywhere.
Thinking of this, York looked at Charlie, who seemed to be in shock, and said helplessly,
"Charlie, I'm sorry. Can you give me an account number? I'll transfer the money tomorrow."
Charlie carefully took out a pen and paper from his coat pockets, wrote down an account number, and handed it over. His tone was even more respectful than before.
"Father Yorkes, this is our account. You can transfer the money whenever you like."
"Mm."
York took it. He didn't bother explaining what had just happened to Charlie. The world of ordinary people—even those in specialized industries—was indeed a bit too far removed from his own.
"Alright, Charlie."
Charlie nodded obediently, holding his hat to his chest in a respectful gesture.
York didn't mind, letting Charlie quietly back away a few more steps as he looked toward the doorway.
At some point, the two Cleaners responsible for the entrance had disappeared.
York raised an eyebrow. In his eyes, the doorway had been restored to its original state. Even the bloodstains on the door, the fragments on the side, and other difficult-to-clean things had vanished without a trace. Overall, it looked no different from usual.
Before York could figure out how they had cleaned it, the two Cleaners who had just disappeared and the eight who had been tidying up inside walked out one by one, each carrying a corpse tightly wrapped in film.
Watching these calm-faced Cleaners move the corpses one by one into the Cleaning Truck, York couldn't help but recall John the God of Killers' description of them.
"Professional..."