LightReader

Chapter 65 - Chapter 66: The Arrival of John

"It's already 10:00 PM. What was that livestream account called again? It should be live by now..."

While the Cleaners were still tidying up, York took advantage of the free time to handle some unfinished business.

It was nothing major, just checking on that exorcism livestream.

He had originally returned to the church to deal with this first, but the ensuing gunfight had disrupted his rhythm.

York skillfully opened the streaming site and searched for the exorcism room number.

The gunfight that just occurred was, at most, a trivial matter—a bit of spice in his life.

Supernatural events were what he truly prioritized.

No matter how he looked at it, that exorcism livestream seemed like it would cause major problems in the future.

Especially after hearing that "Satan" was looking for him, he found himself thinking about this exorcism livestream from time to time.

It was a gut feeling, and York generally took such feelings seriously.

For someone like him, a gut feeling was never just a vague sensation or a simple physiological reaction; its accuracy was frighteningly high.

Recalling the string of numbers, York quickly found the exorcism livestream room.

To his satisfaction, the room had already been banned.

"Well done."

York offered a rare internal word of praise for the church's Occult Bureau.

It seemed the people in the church had also sensed the risk.

By now, the cleaning work seemed to be nearing its end, as the burly men emerged carrying various cleaning tools.

"Father Yorkes, the cleaning is complete." Old Charlie, who had been keeping his distance, appeared before him, clutching a black bucket hat to his chest.

"Would you like to inspect it first?"

York put away his phone, glanced at the burly men boarding their vehicles, and nodded.

"Alright."

He definitely had to check; those seventy thousand couldn't go to waste. However, upon entering, York gained a deeper appreciation for the weight of the word "professional."

This was what professionalism looked like.

Under the Cleaners' sweeping and organizing, not only was the entrance restored to its original state, but the bodies, blood, indescribable fragments, shell casings, firearms, and even the wooden shards from the pews in the main hall had vanished without a trace.

More importantly, they had returned the chaotic pews to their original positions, clean and tidy. Aside from the pews that were half-destroyed, there was no sign that a gunfight had ever taken place.

Looking around, York felt for the first time that the seventy thousand was well spent—he even had the fleeting thought that it would have been worth one hundred and fifty thousand.

Thinking of those ten burly men with their calm expressions and exceptionally nimble movements, York gave them a five-star rating in his heart.

"Your Cleaners are very good, Charlie."

Old Charlie gave a rare smile. "I'm glad you're satisfied."

With that, Old Charlie stole a glance at the priest who had changed his original impression, then said cautiously.

"Then, shall we head back? Father."

Hearing this, York withdrew his gaze from the inspection.

"Mhm, I'll see you out."

The scene shifted outside once more.

Old Charlie sat in the passenger seat facing him, still in that respectful posture with his bucket hat held to his chest and his head bowed.

"Goodnight, Father Yorkes."

"Goodnight, Charlie."

York nodded and watched the two cleaning trucks drive away. Only then did he grip his SHAK-12 Heavy Assault Rifle and turn back into the church, intending to offer a prayer before heading home.

A morning prayer heralded the start of the day, so naturally, an evening prayer was needed to conclude it. Only then would the day feel complete, allowing him to close up and rest in peace.

He put the SHAK-12 Heavy Assault Rifle back in its place, turned off the bright overhead lights, and lit a white candle that was nearly burnt down to add to the atmosphere.

York glanced at the Jesus Statue, which seemed to be listening quietly, then at the hall illuminated only by candlelight. He sat on the front pew, hands clasped in prayer.

It was nothing special, mostly just recounting the day's events and repenting for what had just happened—letting blood be spilled before the altar. After a few brief words, he still hadn't heard the notification sound for a reward, which left him feeling a bit disappointed.

Sometimes, morning and evening prayers could trigger random rewards, but it seemed unlikely tonight.

Looking at the eternally unchanging Jesus Statue, York let out a soft sigh and prepared to get up and call it a night.

But for some reason, tonight was quite busy. Another set of heavy footsteps reached his ears.

York instinctively stopped and looked toward the door.

"John?"

Everyone has their own walking habits; by extension, the sound of everyone's footsteps is naturally different.

And this kind of heavy yet strangely light footstep was one that only John, that God of Death with his particular build, could produce.

Sure enough, a somewhat bulky-looking man appeared at the door.

Dressed in a black suit, with flowing black hair and a scruffy beard, his face was rugged yet sharply contoured. He exuded an air of determination and calm, his eyes deep and focused.

Who else could it be but the "give me back my dog" God of Death, John Wick.

His gaze was steady as he nodded.

"Father Yorkes."

Seeing the familiar figure from his past life, York gave a rare, sincere smile. He glanced at the man's abdomen; judging by the footsteps and the heavy scent of gunpowder, he could tell John might be injured.

"John! How have you been lately?"

"Mhm."

John Wick nodded and continued his heavy stride, sitting on the pew next to York. He first made the sign of the cross toward the Jesus Statue.

"Father, I'm sorry for what happened here. I've already paid for the cleaning."

York's smile remained. He didn't intend to press him on how he found out so quickly.

After all, information circulated freely in the underworld; it wasn't just the Grizzly Gang hunting John—John was likely hunting the Grizzly Gang as well.

It wasn't hard to imagine that Old Charlie had likely told John.

"How much did you pay?"

"One coin. Worth seventy thousand."

"Alright, that is indeed the agreed price."

"I will compensate for all the damage to the church," John Wick continued without pause.

"And I will eliminate the Grizzly Gang."

He spoke with resolve. York smiled; this was exactly the impression he had. The John Wick of this parallel world was straightforward—an eye for an eye.

Otherwise, he wouldn't have done that whole "give me back my dog" thing.

Thinking of the movie series he'd seen in his past life, York didn't bother refusing out of false modesty, even though the Grizzly Gang was just a small ant he could crush at will.

"John, do you need my help?"

John Wick shook his head, his tone remaining calm as he looked at the Jesus Statue. "Father, if possible, I would prefer you not to interfere."

Hearing this and combining it with his impressions from his past life, York felt that this seemingly bulky God of Death might truly be planning to charge straight in tonight... "John," York gestured toward his abdomen and asked again.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Mhm."

John Wick nodded and stood up, speaking seriously to the priest.

"Father Yorkes, until we meet again."

More Chapters