Karen tossed the cross necklace beside Mr. Hoffen’s pillow, stretched out his arms, and spun in place,

and said,

“Didn’t you say my soul would be annihilated? Look at me; nothing happened.”

“This is impossible!” Mr. Hoffen muttered to himself in disbelief.

“Rest well; I’ll visit again. I hope by then your mind will be in better shape.” Karen tapped his head, “Goodbye, Mr. Hoffen.”

With that, Karen left the room.

“His soul wasn’t destroyed by the purifier.

Could I have been wrong?

Is he truly not a demon?”

Descending the stairs, Karen passed by the nurse’s desk, where the young nurse smiled at him sweetly, and he returned the smile.

Leaving the inpatient building,

Karen didn’t go directly to the parking lot to find Paul,

but instead walked to a corner of the hospital garden,

squatted down,

clasped his right hand over his mouth,

and furiously waved his left arm,

“D*mn… that hurt!”

After a series of frantic flaps,

Karen finally stopped,

and opened his left hand in front of him, slowly spreading out his palm.

In the center of his left palm was a “cross”-shaped burn scar, and the wound seemed cauterized, so no blood flowed.

Looking at this burn mark,

Karen fell into deep thought.

After a long while,

he asked himself,

“So… what exactly am I?”

"Royalty, nobility, prestige, luxury, generosity… Golden Casket."

"Elegance, restraint, wisdom, calmness… Breeze Casket."

In the sitting room, Karen was seated on a small sofa, leafing through the family's "Coffin Catalog."

The descriptions Karen just read out were from the catalog’s two most expensive caskets. Each adjective stacked upon another in strings of praise, with prices at 2.25 million and 2.5 million Rubles respectively. Why the Breeze Casket costs more than the Golden Casket? Perhaps that’s the price of “elegance.”

Uncle Mason had once explained to Karen that the catalog prices were about five times the actual cost. Even so, a single casket costing 500,000 or 550,000 Rubles still represented a hefty sum.

If Karen remembered correctly, 500,000 Rubles could buy a decent three-bedroom apartment in the city. In the world of the truly wealthy, it seemed, a single casket could be worth as much as a home.

“A coffee.”

“Thank you, Aunt Winnie.”

Aunt Winnie placed the coffee on the table and took a seat on the opposite sofa.

“Had a few quiet days, I assume?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Karen nodded. While Mina and the others had school, he had nothing to attend, so he’d been doing the cooking. His meals had impressed the family, expanding their appreciation of good food. Just two days ago, he prepared a special Sichuan-style boiled beef dish, which everyone enjoyed immensely—especially Uncle Mason, who ate with unreserved enthusiasm. However, the next day, Uncle Mason walked around hobbling, his hemorrhoids flaring up.

Aside from cooking, Karen didn’t have much to do. Although Grandpa hadn’t helped him reinstate his school enrollment, he had gotten him a full set of high school textbooks and study guides. Out of all the subjects, Karen would occasionally read the history book, but the others held little interest for him.

“Soon enough, things should get busier,” Aunt Winnie continued. “There are two elderly patients in Flowerwater Bay Sanatorium whose health is declining. And we have partnerships with two nearby hospitals where a few critical patients have been admitted recently. Additionally, there’s a parishioner at the church who’s nearing the end at home. When the time comes, I’ll recommend your counseling services to the families.”

“Thank you, Aunt.”

“Why say thanks when it’s all for our family business? Here, drink your coffee; I added some sugar.”

“Sure.”

Karen gripped his left hand lightly. Though the coffee was placed on his left side, he reached over awkwardly with his right hand to pick it up and take a sip.

Just then, the phone rang.

Aunt Winnie stood up to answer it.

“Hello? Yes…yes…got it.”

She hung up, the click of the phone sounding sharp, followed by an even sharper shout:

“Mason! Mason!”

Uncle Mason, who had been reading the financial paper upstairs over tea, immediately dropped everything, hurriedly putting on his coat while practically stomping down the stairs.

“Apparently, the stage at the Crown Ballroom collapsed. There are multiple casualties.”

“Oh, the Crown Ballroom.” Uncle Mason nodded.

“Where’s the Crown Ballroom?” Aunt Mary’s voice came from the staircase landing.

“Yes, where exactly is it?” Uncle Mason echoed.

“I know, Mr. Mason,” Ron answered. “It’s on Hill Street, an old dance hall that’s been around for a long time.”

Earlier, Ron and Paul had been napping on a bench in the yard, soaking up the sun. On quieter days with no tasks at hand, it was common for them to rest for entire days at a time. In their line of work, even when there was no business, staff still had to be ready on standby. After all, while it might be easy to find a temporary server, temporary pallbearers are a much tougher find.

No one wanted to ask the neighbors for a hand with carrying bodies. Not after Aunt Mary’s recent argument with Mrs. Mark over some petty expense she refused to pay.

“Oh, Hill Street,” Uncle Mason said, looking up at Aunt Mary on the stairs. “Get ready, dear. I’ll try to bring a customer directly home if there is one.”

“Sure thing, darling.” Aunt Mary nodded.

Karen, watching this exchange from the sofa, couldn’t help but chuckle. To anyone else, it might have looked like the family was preparing for a 911 dispatch. But that’s business—being proactive. They didn’t just have contacts in hospitals and sanatoriums; they had “eyes” in various places to tip them off. Deals weren’t won by waiting around; they had to be chased.

“Many casualties, huh?” Uncle Mason looked at Karen. “Come along. Another pair of hands will be useful.”

“All right, Uncle.”

Uncle Mason took the driver’s seat, while Karen, along with Paul and Ron, folded up the stretcher trolley, loading it into the hearse along with body bags and other equipment before climbing in.

As the hearse revved up, Aunt Winnie tossed a stack of Immersas Death Care pamphlets through the window.

“Let’s go!”

Uncle Mason gave his sister and wife a firm nod—a general ready for battle. Aunt Winnie and Aunt Mary looked equally serious, awaiting their general’s triumphant return.

The hearse sped off, with Uncle Mason running two red lights. Fortunately, there were no traffic cameras around. Unless the police happened to be right nearby, no one would stop them.

“Could a stage collapse really be that serious?” Karen asked, curious.

Ron was about to answer, but Uncle Mason beat him to it:

“The Crown Ballroom has a unique setup. Its stage is a reinforced glass platform suspended five meters high. The dancers—often wearing skirts or miniskirts—dance on it, so that those standing below can look up. Many patrons pay extra for the thrill of watching these dancers above them. So, if the stage collapsed while people were dancing both on and under it…well, it could be pretty tragic.”

Ron chimed in, “Yeah, it costs 5 Rubles for a regular dance, but 50 Rubles for the high-rise glass dance. Ridiculously expensive.”

Uncle Mason shrugged. “The money isn’t the issue. It’s an old dance hall; it’s bound to be a bit worn down. I wouldn’t go up there myself; too risky. I’ve seen plenty of ghastly corpses from accidental deaths, believe me.”

“Did you used to go there often?” Karen asked.

“I did in my younger days. Not much since I got married. A few years ago, I went there once or twice while visiting old friends in Roger City. But ever since moving back here, not once.”

It wasn’t a matter of class differences; Uncle Mason just operated in an entirely different world from his former friends. He wasn’t about to say, “Hey, buddy, I know you’re grieving. How about we go dancing?”

Soon, they reached Hill Street. Uncle Mason skillfully navigated through a series of narrow alleys, turning a corner and pulling up alongside the main street, right in front of the Crown Ballroom.

As they exited the hearse, a patrol car pulled up beside them. The police captain in the passenger seat, a man in a khaki trench coat smoking a pipe, stared at them in shock.

“D*mn it, Mason, how did you get here faster than the police and ambulances?!”

It was clear that Sheriff Duke knew Uncle Mason.

That wasn’t surprising—after all, a funeral home's regular clients included nursing homes, hospitals, churches, and, of course, the police department. Picking up bodies from the police morgue was a common occurrence.

Uncle Mason explained, “Sheriff Duke, it’s just a coincidence—we just happened to be on the street.”

“Heh.” Sheriff Duke didn’t seem to believe him.

However, with the traffic jam and the fact that the city stadium was hosting a national soccer team friendly match, police resources had been largely diverted to handle security there, and additional officers wouldn’t be able to arrive any time soon.

“Follow me inside and help me maintain order.”

“Yes, sir!”

Uncle Mason snapped to attention, and Ron and Paul immediately followed suit. Karen was a beat behind, but soon straightened up as well.

The scene was somewhat comical, and Sheriff Duke couldn’t help but chuckle, though he quickly remembered this wasn’t the place for laughter and turned to the officer driving.

“Mick, turn on the siren and go clear a path for the ambulance to come through.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

Ron and Paul pushed their way forward through the crowd, and Sheriff Duke glanced at the injured people gathered by the roadside. They seemed to be those who had run out after the stage collapsed in the dance hall. Many were hurt but able to move on their own, so their injuries shouldn’t be too serious. They were helping each other with simple first aid and bandaging.

“Are there still people inside?” Sheriff Duke asked.

“Are there still people inside?” Uncle Mason grabbed a worker wearing a dance hall uniform.

“Yes… yes, there are.”

“Let’s go. We’re going in.”

Sheriff Duke took the lead. On his way up the stairs, he saw several people with more severe injuries being helped or carried out. Some had glass shards embedded in their legs or abdomen and couldn’t walk on their own.

Uncle Mason abandoned a person with a glass shard stuck in their leg and instead moved to assist a young man dressed in streetwear, who had a piece of glass embedded in his abdomen.

“Are you okay? Can you hang in there?”

The young man, thinking a doctor had arrived, nodded eagerly. “I think I’ll be fine. I can hold on.”

Uncle Mason’s enthusiasm instantly waned, and he let go of the young man’s hand.

“Doctor?” The young man called out to him.

“Sorry, I have to go further in to find people with more serious injuries. They need me more right now!”

The young man nodded. “I understand.”

Sheriff Duke continued leading the Immellus family members further inside.

As they went, Sheriff Duke joked with Mason. “Are you that eager to find a dead body?”

Uncle Mason replied, “Business is slow these days.”

“Heh, slow, is it?”

“When you guys have a slow season, you can go catch drug dealers and illegal brothels. We can’t exactly go around making people dead, can we?”

“I’m warning you, if we find someone gravely injured inside, you better get them to a hospital first. If the ambulance isn’t here yet, take them in your car. Don’t be hauling someone off to your place before they’re actually gone.”

“As if I’d do that.”

They had finally made it to the main dance floor. Most people had already evacuated, but there were still a dozen or so left inside.

The floor was covered with glass shards, large and small.

After only a few steps, they saw a person leaning against a booth.

As they drew closer, they saw that half of his head had been sliced off.

Behind the booth was a large glass panel about three square meters in size.

A piece of glass that large coming down could slice off half a person’s head as easily as cutting a watermelon.

The scene behind the booth was even more gruesome, a medley of colors splattered like a jar of condiments.

Uncle Mason hurried forward and turned to Sheriff Duke, anxiously asking, “Sheriff, come take a look—is this person really dead?”

Sheriff Duke gave Mason a swift kick, though mindful of the shards on the floor, he held back and didn’t actually make contact.

This exchange hinted at the true nature of the relationship between Mason and Sheriff Duke.

Three years ago, when Sheriff Duke’s mother had passed away, it was Mason’s funeral home that had handled the arrangements—at no charge to the family.

Karen hadn’t known this at the time. Back then, he had been a reclusive young man with little understanding or concern for the family business.

“Ron, body bag,” Uncle Mason ordered.

“Got it.”

Ron took out a body bag and began to place it around the unfortunate soul, mumbling as he went, “This booth must’ve been expensive. What rotten luck.”

The glass stage overhead was right above the seat, offering the best view for looking up.

Ron worked quickly and didn’t flinch, showing neither hesitation nor squeamishness at the gruesome scene. This professionalism was the reason why Ron and Paul could get paid leave for entire days at a time and still earn considerably higher salaries than ordinary workers.

Up ahead, a person lay surrounded by others. His body had several pieces of glass embedded in it, and blood kept trickling out of his mouth. He could no longer speak, only blink.

Seeing the man’s grave condition, his friends or perhaps kind-hearted patrons of the dance hall had not dared to move him for fear of causing further harm.

Uncle Mason quickly stepped forward, took the man’s hand, and said,

“Hang on, hang on! Please, you have to hold on!”

He then shouted over his shoulder at Paul,

“Stretcher, stretcher! Hurry!”

Paul set down the stretcher but didn’t release the four wheels.

Uncle Mason instructed the people around, “Careful now, everyone take a bit of the weight, keep it steady. Let’s get him on the stretcher and out of here—the ambulance will be here soon. He still has a chance!”

The crowd immediately followed Uncle Mason’s instructions, working together to help lift the man carefully.

Karen knew that Uncle Mason’s urgency stemmed from knowing the man likely wouldn’t make it.

Still, Uncle Mason’s actions were the right choice—this was what was best for the injured man and would also get him to medical care faster.

And once the man reached the hospital and didn’t make it, Mason’s having “made a face familiar” among grateful family members would naturally help him secure the funeral contract.

Sheriff Duke watched nearby, choosing not to interfere. He understood that, while Mason was indeed after contracts, he wasn’t the type to act irresponsibly.

Karen thought about helping, but the stretcher was already crowded.

Just then, he heard Sheriff Duke mutter, “Huh?”

He looked over to see that the sheriff had moved to the center of the stage.

The layout of Crown Ballroom was such that the center was a large wooden stage, three steps up from the ground, with a glass platform above it.

After the glass stage had crashed down, it had left several holes in the wooden stage below.