The embers in the fireplace radiated warmth, making the small room cozy despite the occasional draft from the open window.
"November 1st: Jacob Valentine donated 5 shillings."
In the room behind the church, Marvin sat at his desk, recording the day's income with a quill dipped in ink. He didn't keep a diary, but meticulous bookkeeping helped him quickly recall the source and purpose of every penny.
The ledger was filled with dates, names, and amounts. In October alone, the Church of Truth had earned £25, 3 shillings, and 11 pence. At this rate, annual income would be around £300, just enough to cross the threshold into the middle class.
The currency of Windsor Kingdom came in four denominations. The most valuable was the gold pound (£1), which could be exchanged for 20 silver shillings. Each shilling was worth 12 copper pennies, and a penny could buy 4 farthings.
All this income was earned through honest work. Marvin had never imposed a tithe on his parishioners. He understood that a church's congregation included not just the wealthy, but also the poor and destitute. Forcing them to pay would damage the church's reputation and hinder its growth in the community.
When Marvin first arrived in New Ross, he announced that all church services would be provided free of charge. Not only that, but during the church's early days, he used his own money to regularly feed the poor, establish a Sunday school to teach the town's children without charge, and hold weekly Friday masses. Over time, the Church of Truth gradually took root in New Ross, transitioning from a money-losing venture to a sustainable operation.
"It's been three years now..." Marvin put down his quill and gazed out the window at the blue sky, sighing with emotion.
Three years ago, he had arrived in this world.
Marvin had always been named Marvin. As a psychology student, he had chosen to pursue a master's degree in philosophy because he believed the two fields were deeply interconnected. To truly understand the human mind, one must study philosophy.
But just as he was about to graduate, he was diagnosed with glioblastoma. During his final year of life, despite the pain and suffering, he felt fortunate because of his family's unwavering support and the care of his classmates and friends. He was luckier than many who were abandoned.
At the moment of death, he had closed his eyes peacefully, ready to embrace the end. But...
The sound of a gavel had woken him up.
Inheriting the memories of his new body, Marvin learned the whole story.
Marvin Enders, first mate of the St. Martyr's Fleet, had used letters of marque issued by King Rod IV of Windsor to raid ships belonging to the Bourbon Kingdom, amassing vast wealth. Their fleet had been unstoppable, raiding from the northern waters of Bourbon all the way to the south and back again, returning with holds full of treasure.
Everything had been going smoothly until Marvin reviewed the original owner's memories...
It seemed the real reason they had angered the Bourbon Crown, prompting King Ivan XIV to form a grand coalition fleet of over a hundred ships to ambush them in the Perea Strait, was that they had raided a "merchant ship" belonging to the Church of Wisdom.
The original Marvin's logbook contained this entry:
"October 1st: We encountered a severe storm during our voyage. After it passed, a merchant ship flying the flag of the Church of Wisdom appeared... We were stunned, and so were they."
"October 3rd: After a day and night of pursuit, we successfully intercepted the merchant ship... No, it was no ordinary merchant ship. They had the most experienced sailors and captains. During our search, we discovered gold in the cargo holds—more gold than we could count! They must have found a treasure trove!"
"October 4th: While inventorying the treasure, we found a stone tablet among the gold inscribed with ancient, unreadable script. If the Church of Wisdom's bishop hadn't died of a sudden hemorrhage last night, we might have been able to decipher it..."
The subsequent entries were trivial and unimportant. Only the last one contained any useful information:
"October 25th: We are surrounded... The enemy outnumbers us three to one and has blocked the strait entrance. Captain Crowley was shot and fell overboard during the battle. The letter of marque was in his possession. Without it, we may not make it home before New Year."
There was only one letter of marque, carried by the fleet commander. Without it, Marvin Enders, as the new commander, couldn't prove the St. Martyr's Fleet was a legitimate "privateer fleet." When captured, the Bourbon Royal Court wasted no time in declaring them pirates and sentencing them to hang on the banks of the Rhine.
The executioner had even maliciously used short ropes to ensure a slow, painful death for all 138 crew members.
As the noose tightened around his neck, Marvin couldn't help but think: the original owner had committed the crimes, so why should he suffer the consequences?
But fortune favored him. Just one minute before the execution, Captain Tore Crowley, who had been shot and fallen overboard, miraculously appeared at the gallows. He publicly produced the water-stained but still legible letter of marque. His brave act saved Marvin Enders and the others.
Even the executioner knew that if he proceeded, he would be the one held responsible by the Bourbon Crown.
Marvin Enders and the surviving crew were then repatriated to Windsor Kingdom. Although King Rod IV was displeased that they had returned without the gold and silver, he still "generously" praised their bravery in battle and awarded them the Royal Order of Merit.
Shortly after, Marvin learned that Windsor Kingdom had signed a naval treaty with Bourbon and other maritime powers, permanently abolishing the privateer system.
With no family or ties to the past, and no desire to return to life at sea, Marvin declined a commission in the Royal Navy. Discovering that this world allowed religious freedom and was home to countless churches, he said farewell to Captain Tore Crowley and traveled alone to New Ross to establish the Church of Truth.
After reflecting on the past three years, Marvin walked to the basin and looked at his reflection in the water. After a moment, he laughed at himself: "Who knew changing bodies would make me more handsome..."
"Young and handsome priest"—that was how the women of New Ross described him.
He thought it was an accurate assessment.
After washing his face, Marvin checked his pocket watch and saw it was nearly 3 o'clock in the afternoon. He quickly put on his full-length black wool coat over his Dalaran priest robes and donned a bowler hat, completing his winter attire.
Adjusting the red star necklace around his neck, Marvin returned to the church and addressed the two cats:
"Fat Orange, Little Black, I'm going to the market. You two guard the church while I'm gone."
"Meow~"
Little Black sat obediently by the door, watching the passersby as if daring anyone to attempt theft.
Fat Orange, however, huffed through its nose, its tail flicking under the windowsill. It didn't even bother to lift its eyes, as if responding or perhaps just snoring. It was as aloof as a lover who has fallen out of love.
A lover with testicles.
Both cats were strays Marvin had taken in. Fat Orange hadn't always been so large. When Marvin first found it, it was covered in wounds, emaciated, and licking its injuries in an alley behind the church. Feeling sorry for it, Marvin tried to feed it, but Fat Orange ignored the food until Marvin started preparing his own dinner. Only then did it emerge from hiding, snatch the raw meat from the table, and run away.
It never accepted charity. That was one lesson Marvin had learned over their three years together.
As for Little Black, it wasn't Marvin who found it. Two years ago, Fat Orange had brought it home as a kitten no more than two months old. Marvin was surprised to see Fat Orange sharing its food with the newcomer. From that day on, Fat Orange gained a loyal follower, Little Black gained a reliable older brother, and Marvin gained two cats whose care significantly increased his daily expenses.
In an era with limited entertainment, petting cats was one of life's simple pleasures.
The church was located at the end of Kerr Street, in the working-class district of Southtown, separated from the wealthy town center by only one street.
Marvin had spent a small fortune to buy and renovate the abandoned church, which had cost him £2,500—half his savings at the time. But he had no regrets. He calculated that renting a similar-sized church in New Ross would cost at least £10 per week, which would amount to around £500 annually. Buying outright was much more economical in the long run.
More importantly, New Ross was located at the confluence of the Barrow and Nore rivers, making it strategically positioned for trade. Nine years of famine had depopulated the area and driven down property prices, but as time passed, the population would recover and property values would rise.
Marvin's prediction proved correct. With the arrival of the railway, New Ross—with its flat terrain and access to both river and land transport—quickly became a thriving southern city. As the town prospered, property values skyrocketed.
Now, £2,500 would barely buy a fraction of the church's current value.
Standing on the street corner, Marvin took out a whistle and blew two sharp blasts.
The whistle cut through the cold air. Before long, a Hansom cab pulled up beside him. The driver, wearing a gray trench coat and sitting high at the rear of the carriage, touched his cap in greeting: "Father, did you call for a cab?"
"To Bill's Market," Marvin said as he climbed in.
Bill's Market was in the southernmost part of New Ross, a poor district teeming with workers. It was a lawless place where thieves and robbers were common, a stark contrast to the well-policed and elegant Ross Avenue Commercial Center. The wealthy avoided it like the plague, but Marvin found it not only cheaper but also full of unexpected finds.
"Today I need olive oil, salt, rosemary, beef, onions, tomatoes, fresh fish... Oh, and I should bring some bread to the orphanage."
As the cab swayed gently, Marvin reviewed his shopping list in the sunlight. Running the church alone kept him busy, so he rarely cooked. Most days, he ate at his neighbor Mrs. Cecil's house, paying her 10 shillings a week for meals. Mrs. Cecil was a kind and gentle woman with good cooking skills, but...
In Marvin's opinion, the three meals a day in Windsor Kingdom were barely edible. They were "food" in the most basic sense, but far from delicious.
This wasn't a matter of cooking skill—it was a systemic issue.
So whenever he had time, Marvin would cook for himself, treating himself to a proper meal.
The Hansom cab moved steadily along the muddy road. The driver sang a folk song as he skillfully maneuvered around pedestrians. Only when a Clarence four-wheeler passed did he stop singing, glancing disdainfully at the other vehicle and muttering "fool" under his breath.
Marvin was accustomed to this rivalry. Hansom and Clarence cab drivers were not enemies, but their relationship was far from friendly. Hansom drivers considered four-wheelers noisy, dark, and uncomfortable, fit only for fools. Clarence drivers saw two-wheelers as cold, unsafe death traps with no sense of elegance.
Perhaps both were right, and perhaps both were wrong.
At 3:30 PM, in the rare sunlight, the Hansom cab arrived at Bill's Market in the southern part of town. After the carriage stopped at the street corner, the driver jumped down and opened the door for Marvin: "Father, the fare is 9 pence."
The starting fare for a Hansom cab was 6 pence for the first three miles, with an additional 3 pence per mile beyond that. Four-wheelers charged double the price, the same as in the capital.
Marvin took out his wallet and counted out nine copper pennies, each bearing the profile of King Rod IV, and handed them to the driver.
"May you have a pleasant day."
After verifying the amount, the driver carefully tucked the coins into his coat pocket, climbed back onto the carriage, tipped his cap to Marvin, turned the horses around, and quickly departed.
He didn't expect to find any customers in Bill's Market. Few in the poor district could afford cab fares. Ross Avenue was the place to find wealthy passengers.
The air smelled of coal smoke and an odd stench. The ground was damp and muddy. In a dark alley nearby, a group of idle men in ill-fitting velvet jackets watched Marvin intently.
But after a few moments, they looked away, sparing this well-dressed "fat sheep."
Several dirty children, around 12 or 13 years old, ran up to Marvin instead.
"Father!"
The leader was a freckled boy named Maimaiti, who had grown up in the orphanage and started working at age 9. He was pale from lack of sunlight and thin as a rail, but his gray eyes shone with intelligence.
Behind him were three other children—two boys and a girl—all around the same age.
"Maimaiti, Amo, Frederick, Sarah..." Marvin called their names with a smile. "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon, Father!" the four children replied in unison.
"Aren't you supposed to be working at the textile factory?"
Marvin asked, puzzled. "Without you sweeping lint and threading bobbins, those giant spinning machines won't run properly."
"Mr. Albert bought new weaving machines! They need half a day to install and adjust, so all the workers have the afternoon off!" Sarah, the girl with a ponytail, explained. "There was nothing to do at the orphanage either, so Maimaiti suggested we come to the market..."
"Sarah!"
Maimaiti cut her off sharply. Sarah shrank back and fell silent.
Marvin didn't need her to finish. He knew exactly what Maimaiti and the others were doing at the market.
Most of the children in the orphanage were too young to work and waited for adoption. Feeding so many children was a constant struggle. So older children like Maimaiti worked to earn extra money.
Although Albert Hausen was a kind employer, his factory was small and could only pay the children 8 shillings a week for their work. Most of this money went to the orphanage's nuns. So Maimaiti and his friends often used their free time to pick pockets at the market.
Marvin knew stealing was wrong, and the children knew it too. But what other choice did they have?
Preaching morality to someone who is hungry is itself immoral.
"You came at the perfect time," Marvin said. "You helped me clean the church last time, so today I'll treat you to something to eat. What would you like?"
Sarah's eyes lit up. "Bread with lots and lots of sweet butter!"
"Excellent. Let's go," Marvin said, taking Sarah's hand.
He led the children through the bustling market to Mrs. Meyer's bakery.
As soon as they entered, the rich aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air.
"Welcome..."
Mrs. Meyer, who had been working behind the counter, immediately put down her dough, removed her flour-dusted sleeves, and came out from the back room.
"Father Marvin, you're here again."
Seeing who it was, Mrs. Meyer's smile widened, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening.
As a regular customer, Marvin bought large quantities of bread and butter from her every week, most of which he had her deliver to the orphanage. Because of this, Mrs. Meyer not only became a parishioner of the Church of Truth but also sold her bread at a very reasonable price.
"The people of South End were raised on Mrs. Meyer's bread"—so went the saying on Bill Street.
"120 pounds of wheat bread and 24 pounds of butter, as usual," Marvin said.
Wheat bread was made entirely from wheat flour, costing 3 pence per pound.
In addition to wheat bread, Mrs. Meyer also sold bread with bran added, known as "black bread."
This bread had a hard crust and dry interior, making it difficult to chew. It was one-third cheaper than wheat bread, costing only 2 pence per pound.
But...
Marvin would have chosen the cheaper black bread for adults, but most of the children in the orphanage were too young to handle its toughness.
"That will be £2.4," Mrs. Meyer said immediately.
Butter normally cost 10 pence per pound, but she gave Marvin a discount of 1 pence out of respect.
"Add 3 pounds of sweet butter, please," Marvin said with a smile, counting out two gold coins and five silver shillings and placing them on the table. "I promised the children bread with lots of sweet butter."
"Understood," Mrs. Meyer said with a knowing smile. She went back to the kitchen and returned a moment later with a plate of warm toast thickly spread with butter.
She handed the plate to Maimaiti and said, "This is on me. It's still warm—best eaten before it cools."
"Thank you, Mrs. Meyer," Marvin said, removing his hat and pressing it to his chest.
"Thank you, Father," Mrs. Meyer said, pressing her palm to her chest and bowing. "Truth above all."
"Truth above all."
...
"What is truth?"
"Truth is the light of the great path that exposes all falsehoods and hypocrisy. It resides within us—it is the compassion we feel when we see suffering, the sweat of honest laborers... and the moths drawn to the streetlamp's light, yearning for the sun."
"People are lost because they cannot see the light of truth. For those who wander without direction, Goddess Eonia of Truth always dispels the fog and shows them the way forward."
That night, Marvin sat at his desk by the light of an oil lamp, writing in The Book of Truth. This was the foundation of the church's teachings, and he treated it with the utmost care.
Three years ago, The Book of Truth had been just a rough draft. But over time, Marvin had refined and expanded it, and now it spanned hundreds of pages.
It contained not only his interpretations of truth but also stories he had carefully crafted to illustrate its principles.
"Meow~"
Before he knew it, Little Black had jumped onto the desk and was lying on its back in front of him, its four fluffy paws waving in time with his quill.
Whenever this happened, Marvin would stop writing, pick up Little Black, and rub its back vigorously with a damp cloth. Without fail...
For the next hour, he would only see Little Black's back as it busily groomed itself.
When it came to manipulating others, Marvin had plenty of experience.
After finishing his work on The Book of Truth, Marvin took out his carving knife and a block of wood from his drawer and began to carve.
He had intended to make small statues of Goddess Eonia to give to his parishioners, but due to his limited skill, he had only completed one statue in the past year.
"Sigh, I can't give this away—it's too embarrassing. I'd better go prepare the holy water..."
After half an hour, Marvin looked at his work with a complicated expression.
The palm-sized wooden statue was poorly carved, with nothing worth looking at except the head. But it was still his hard work, and he couldn't bear to throw it away.
Shaking his head, Marvin wrapped the statue in a piece of white cloth, put it away in his drawer along with his quill and inkwell, and went downstairs. He filled a kettle with water in the bathroom and put it on the coal stove to boil.
The water boiled quickly. Marvin lifted the lid, and steam billowed out. He plucked a few leaves from the mint plant on the windowsill and added them to the kettle. After boiling for a few more minutes, a pot of refreshing holy water was ready.
As part of his daily routine, Marvin enjoyed preparing holy water because it gave him an excuse to drink a cup of black tea while waiting for the water to boil.
It was a taste of home.
Creak...
Just as Marvin closed his eyes, savoring the aroma of the tea, the kitchen door opened. No one was there—the room was dark and silent.
"Meow!"
Marvin felt something tugging at his pants leg. He picked up the oil lamp and looked under the table, only to find Little Black and Fat Orange standing there, biting his trousers and pulling them urgently, their meows filled with anxiety.
"What's wrong with you two?"
Marvin was confused by their unusual behavior. He bent down to pick up Little Black, but then Fat Orange started biting his trousers. Finally, he gave up and picked up both cats.
"Little Black... you're shaking?"
Holding Little Black in his arms, Marvin felt its body trembling violently, as if it had seen something terrifying. Its eyes were wide with fear, and its fur was standing on end.
This had never happened before.
Fat Orange, however, remained calm.
Outside, Marvin heard a harsh cawing sound. Looking out the window, he saw the sill covered with crows, their black eyes dripping with blood-red tears.
Marvin stepped back in shock, bumping into the table. The pain in his waist jolted him awake. He didn't know what was happening, but the hair on his neck stood on end...
This was no ordinary occurrence.
Boom!
Suddenly, the ground shook violently. The house swayed from side to side, and dust fell from the ceiling. The dishes in the cupboard clattered loudly, as if the entire world was being tossed about by a storm.
Earthquake!
Marvin's face turned pale. Without thinking, he grabbed Fat Orange and Little Black and ran for the window. His years at sea gave him the presence of mind to react to emergencies like this. He ran with the agility of a sailor and leaped through the window, using his back to push aside the crows.
The kitchen was on the first floor, and the window was only about a meter above the ground. With no obstacles in the way, the fall wouldn't cause serious injury.
Marvin landed on his back and rolled to absorb the impact. Before he could recover from the dizziness, he saw a spooked horse pulling a carriage charging toward him.
At the last moment, he dodged out of the way, narrowly avoiding the runaway horse. After confirming there were no other immediate dangers, he let out a long sigh of relief.
Strangely enough, the earthquake lasted less than half a minute—it was over almost as soon as he jumped out the window.
After a moment of silence, people began pouring out of their houses, most wearing only their flannel nightgowns and looking terrified.
"Father!"
Hearing someone calling his name, Marvin turned around and saw his neighbor Mrs. Cecil running toward him barefoot, her face pale. "What happened just now?"
"It was an earthquake," Marvin said, looking up at the sky. There were no stars or moon—thick clouds covered the sky, casting New Ross into darkness. Only the street lamps provided a faint glow of warmth.
Marvin had never seen such strange celestial phenomena before. Combined with the crows weeping blood on his windowsill, he felt a vague sense of unease.
"Mrs. Cecil, please gather the neighbors. If that was an earthquake, there might be aftershocks," Marvin said.
"I understand," Mrs. Cecil said. Although she didn't know what an aftershock was, she could tell from Marvin's serious expression that it must be dangerous.
At Mrs. Cecil's urging, the town knocker went from door to door with a long bamboo pole, waking everyone up.
Dozens of people gathered in front of the church, wrapped in thick wool blankets to protect themselves from the cold wind, shivering with fear.
"Father... when can we go home?" someone asked timidly.
"Wait another hour," Marvin said, checking his pocket watch. "Aftershocks can occur within an hour, a day, a week, or even a month after an earthquake—or they may not come at all. I don't know exactly when they might strike, but it's better to be safe than sorry."
The hour passed quickly, and there was no sign of an aftershock. Even the oppressive clouds had dispersed, and the bright moonlight once again bathed the earth. Seeing this...
Marvin finally let out a sigh of relief.
"Mrs. Cecil, please go to my kitchen and make some ginger tea to warm everyone up," Marvin said.
Then he turned to the crowd of neighbors, most of whom were parishioners of the Church of Truth:
"Everyone, the immediate danger has passed."
The parishioners looked relieved, but Marvin's next words made them worried again.
"When you go home, carefully inspect your houses, especially the beams and walls. If you find any cracks, you must repair them immediately—otherwise, your house could collapse at any time."
"Will it... will it definitely collapse?" someone asked weakly.
Marvin frowned. "You should be thinking about the consequences of collapse, not hoping for the best."
"As for the cost of repairs, don't worry. As it says in The Book of Truth, the kind Goddess Eonia will shelter her faithful. As long as your report is truthful, the Church of Truth will cover all repair costs."
Marvin firmly believed that only actions, not words, were reliable.
To grow the church, empty promises weren't enough—especially in an era with so many competing religions. To stand out, one must be willing to make sacrifices.
"Those who help others will always find their way. Those who know their way will always succeed."
Only those with short-sightedness focus on immediate gains and losses.
The cleanup work lasted until 1 AM. Marvin dragged his exhausted body home and fell into bed immediately. Fat Orange and Little Black curled up on his pillow, closing their eyes as well.
At 2 AM:
Tap... tap... tap...
Marvin was woken up by the sound. He thought he heard running in the hallway—light footsteps that moved from side to side, as if someone was exercising... Wait!
Running?
Marvin sat up straight in bed, listening intently...
Tap... tap... tap...
There was someone in the house!
Damn it!
Marvin's heart raced. He lived alone—who could be in his house?
Fat Orange and Little Black moved silently!
Could it be a thief?
"Fat Orange! Fat Orange!"
Instinctively, Marvin wanted to wake the cats sleeping beside him to help him confront the intruder.
Why?
Because Fat Orange was an excellent fighter, of course.
It could easily take on three or four other cats. It was the undisputed street boss!
But when he reached out, his hand touched only empty sheets.
At some point, the two cats that had been sleeping beside him were gone.
He was alone in the room, and the door was slightly ajar, revealing nothing but darkness.
Marvin took a deep breath to calm himself. Although he had been a humanities student in his previous life and wasn't athletic, his current body had belonged to a naval officer—a trained fighter. And since he had inherited all the original owner's memories...
He was far from defenseless.
Marvin quietly pulled a small wooden box from under his bed, unlocked it, and took out an old-fashioned flintlock pistol with intricate floral patterns engraved on its silver barrel.
He poured black powder from a horn into a measuring device, measured out the correct amount, and poured it into the pistol's barrel. Then he took a 49-millimeter lead ball and a wadding disc, placed them at the 50-millimeter muzzle, and used a short rod to push them firmly into the barrel. Only after ensuring the ball was in contact with the powder did he consider the weapon ready to fire.
Perhaps the sound of ramming the ball into place had alerted the intruder, because the running sounds in the hallway stopped. Instead, he heard the creaking of stairs.
The intruder was going downstairs!
Having obtained this crucial information, Marvin picked up his oil lamp (unlit) and quietly followed.
Creak... creak...
The damp climate of New Ross had caused the stairs to rot, and every step made a noise.
Marvin held the oil lamp in one hand and the flintlock pistol in the other, following the sounds below at a steady pace.
The safest course of action would be to escape the house and seek help from the patrol police. This would guarantee his safety for the night.
But...
What about tomorrow?
Would a thief fear a weak and passive homeowner?
So Marvin chose a second option: to confront the intruder with strength and determination, scaring him away.
He had a gun. Even with only one shot, its deterrent effect would be significant.
Moreover, if the thief heard the shot and ran away, it would mean he was afraid. In that case, Marvin must not retreat—he must pursue relentlessly, but always "just miss" catching him, deepening the thief's fear.
He would confuse the thief!
He would make the thief anxious!
He would push the thief's psychological limits!
When these three factors combined, the thief would inevitably be overcome by fear.
It was like the horror game Outlast.
When it came to psychological warfare, Marvin had never lost.
A minute later, Marvin arrived at the church.
The church was silent. Moonlight shone through the stained glass windows, illuminating the statue of the Goddess. The pews were empty, but the floor was covered with water stains.
The water had spread from the baptismal font. Marvin was confused—why would a thief spill holy water everywhere?
Just as he was trying to figure it out, an orange shadow walked slowly past him.
Fat Orange.
Seeing Fat Orange, Marvin felt exasperated. With a thief in the house, the cat was nowhere to be found. And now it appeared as if nothing was wrong?
Who was the owner here, anyway?
But what Fat Orange did next made Marvin's eyes narrow.
It sat down in front of the confessional booth, yawned widely, and then stared intently at the booth.
There was someone inside!
Marvin narrowed his eyes, looking at the oil lamp in his hand.
The confessional was made of wood. If he lit the lamp and threw it at the booth...
He would have the upper hand.
The intruder was probably watching him through the grille at that very moment.
Should he... or shouldn't he?
The thought only lasted a moment before Marvin dismissed it.
Fat Orange was sitting right in front of the confessional. If he threw the lamp, he might catch the thief, but Fat Orange would also be caught in the fire. In this era, the outcome for a burned person or animal...
Was usually tragic.
After a moment's thought, Marvin lit the oil lamp and placed it on a nearby pew.
Now that he knew the enemy's position, the light would significantly increase his chances of hitting the target with the flintlock pistol.
The advantage was his.
Now he needed to increase that advantage.
With this in mind, Marvin tucked the pistol into his belt and picked up the mop hidden behind the statue, starting to clean up the water stains on the floor.
He grumbled as he mopped, as if complaining about the mess. Then, when he was right beside the confessional...
He suddenly used the mop to hook the confessional door, drew the pistol with his right hand, and opened the door without giving the intruder any time to react!
Bang!
The door slammed against the wall. The dim light from the oil lamp revealed the scene inside the confessional.
A little girl wearing a white sheet was sitting there. Her face was as delicate as a work of art, and her deep blue eyes were filled with innocence. She was holding Little Black in her arms, and...
Marvin thought she looked familiar.
When she saw Marvin, she immediately covered her eyes with her hands and giggled: "Oh! Daddy found me!"