Chapter 8: The Religious Academy’s Older Brother x Brother-Complex Younger Brother (Part 4) He Still…

In the ink-like night, one corner of Sitoon Religious Academy was exceptionally bright it was the glow of money set ablaze.

Besan Tobila was nearly driven mad with urgency, running back and forth directing people to carry buckets of water to extinguish the flames, while shouting for the gardeners to quickly bring over the hoses used for watering flowers.

All the students originally staying in the dormitory building had already evacuated for safety. Some were now helping the adults put out the fire, while others were looking up, monitoring the spread of the flames.

Fortunately, Ponteno’s room was located at the innermost part of the top floor. Even if it caught fire, it wouldn’t immediately spread to other areas, allowing everyone enough time to evacuate safely.

Rimbaud and Verlaine ran out of the dormitory building one after another, reaching the open ground.

Laxin, standing under a tree, spotted the brothers at once and immediately waved vigorously at them, signaling them to come over quickly.

“Why did you take so long to come out? I’ve been looking for you down here the whole time!”

“Sorry, I accidentally fell asleep when I went back to the dorm to rest,” Rimbaud still felt somewhat shaken. “Luckily, Musa returned to the dorm and woke me up, so I hurried out with him.”

“Ah, what a relief!” Laxin also breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Let’s wait here for now. The fire seems much smaller than before, so it should be put out completely soon.”

“I hope we can still go back to sleep tonight.” Rimbaud nodded, exchanging a few words with Laxin from time to time, but his gaze kept subtly observing the reactions of the academy’s management staff.

The students had gathered downstairs first, and he had already secretly observed them from the window for a long time, finding nothing suspicious for now.

At the moment, the gardener Sanlu Mitt and his assistant Huadun were rushing upstairs with hoses; the warehouse manager Martin Masalin was frantically organizing some students to fetch more buckets; the financial manager Karas Haviland, with disheveled hair, was clutching a large stack of paper account books; and teachers from various disciplines, some neatly dressed and others only draped in robes, were carrying their personal belongings to varying degrees…

Having long memorized these people’s profiles, Rimbaud mentally went through them one by one, when his attention suddenly fixed on one person.

Around thirty-five or thirty-six years old, tall and slender in build, with deep brown curly short hair, deep-set eye sockets, and a neatly trimmed Van Dyke beard it was Vichis Prin, the Choir teacher and composer.

He was also standing with his arms crossed not far from the dormitory building, looking up at the gradually weakening fire.

His posture and expression were similar to everyone else’s around him, with no noticeable difference.

But what caught Rimbaud’s attention wasn’t what he had brought it was precisely that he had brought nothing.

Was he confident his room wouldn’t burn? Or were the melodies already memorized, making it unnecessary to bring the scores?

Rimbaud still remembered what Laxin had said before Brook Witt deliberately picked a fight Aoli sang beautifully, but Vichis Prin hadn’t chosen her.

Coincidentally, the Choir’s new member selection was in two weeks. They could try to sneak in and use the opportunity to get close to Vichis Prin.

The accidental fire was eventually extinguished. Aside from severe damage to Ponteno’s room, no other personnel or property were affected.

Afterward, everyone analyzed the remaining evidence at the scene and concluded it was an accidental short circuit caused by aging electrical wiring, rather than intentional arson by anyone.

Moreover, around the time the fire started, everyone had alibis no one had approached Ponteno’s room.

It was unclear whether to feel relieved or not, but Ponteno happened to be attending a charity gala in Spain and wouldn’t return until the next day.

When she heard the news about her room catching fire, she didn’t seem particularly flustered. Instead, she calmly smiled and reassured everyone, saying things like “As long as no one was hurt, it’s fine” and “Blessed be the Lord.”

After morning prayers, she privately called Besan Tobila aside, dismissing everyone else to their tasks.

Even from a distance, Rimbaud was confident he could lip-read their conversation, but in his current role as a student, he had no choice but to be dragged away by Laxin to attend a middle school-level math class.

The material was far too simple for Rimbaud, yet far too difficult for Verlaine.

…Rimbaud hadn’t taught him that part yet.

Most of the time, Verlaine just sat there expressionlessly, zoning out. Even when he occasionally managed to follow some of the explanations, he’d quickly become lost again.

Besides, Verlaine had something else weighing on his mind.

If that fat woman called him over again and used the [Timer] on him… could he guarantee he wouldn’t kill her?

Verlaine could almost vividly recall the intense disgust and revulsion that had erupted within him at that moment as if [Pan] had been resurrected, face twisted with excitement, once again letting out maniacal, unrestrained laughter. It seemed to echo faintly from afar, piercing through layer after layer of thick fog, sharply drilling into his ears.

Completely disregarding his own will, merely manipulating his body on a whim.

If it hadn’t been for the fire Rimbaud set, he was certain the seething darkness in his chest would have driven him to kill her without hesitation.

Even though he himself was a manufactured [Ability Weapon], he still cared so much about so-called “self-awareness.” Verlaine almost laughed mockingly at himself in his heart.

…And yet, the very reason he was here now was because Rimbaud had acknowledged him for the first time.

Not only did Rimbaud recognize his existence, but he also deliberately exchanged names and showed concern for his every word and action.

That was why Verlaine had been willing to join DGSS and follow Rimbaud’s orders.

If he ended up killing the fat woman and caused the mission to fail, it would undoubtedly implicate Rimbaud…

The more Verlaine thought about it, the tighter his brow furrowed. He couldn’t absorb a single word the teacher was saying which drew several questioning glances from Rimbaud, though Verlaine remained oblivious and offered no response.

Rimbaud: “…”

After this mission, environmental observation training would need to be added to the list.

…………

After lunch, the social butterfly Laxin brought them some news.

“Apparently, a big shot is coming to attend our Sacred Ceremony, a month from now,” he said, leaning his forearm on the table and leaning his entire upper body forward, speaking mysteriously. “A really big shot definitely bigger than that company boss from last time.”

“Company boss from last time?” Moran asked. “What are they coming for?”

According to intelligence records, the last visitor to this academy was Plessis Devan, the major shareholder of Italy’s Saint Devan Hotel chain group, who transferred a large sum of funding here after his departure.

The government suspects information leaks originated from these “charitable” acts, but during the official audit, Ponteno insisted these were merely ordinary religious activities, and no evidence of information transmission was found.

“Oh, it’s nothing special,” Laxin said. “They just participated in our ceremonial procedures with us, listened to the Choir’s newly composed Sacred Song, stayed overnight, and left the next day.”

It did sound perfectly ordinary. Rimbaud nodded and then asked the question that currently concerned him most from this statement. “Since the Sacred Ceremony will be held, will the Choir selection still proceed two weeks later?”

“Of course,” Laxin laughed. “This is a very important ritual. Mr. Weixisi composes a new Sacred Song every time.”

Rimbaud pondered. “What are the examination content and criteria? You mentioned last time that Aoli was rejected. Was her singing not good enough?”

“The content is just singing a random passage, but no one knows what Mr. Weixisi’s passing standards are.”

Laxin couldn’t help at all with how to pass the assessment, only offering verbal encouragement.

Rimbaud glanced at Verlaine sitting beside him, who had started daydreaming again, and didn’t continue conversing with Laxin.

Besan Tobila was probably busy preparing for the ceremony and temporarily had no time to seek out Verlaine again which made the latter genuinely relieved.

However, Rimbaud now presented him with a more serious problem.

“Can you sing?”

In their dormitory, Rimbaud directly asked Verlaine, receiving a pair of light hazel eyes filled with confusion in return.

“……”

Just as he expected Pan only needed Black No. 12 to fight for him, why would he specifically teach such a practically useless skill?

“We’ll have to practice intensively. Your natural vocal quality is good. I’ll teach you some basic music theory and vocal techniques. You need to master at least one song before the selection.”

Verlaine, who had never sung before: “…Alright.”

Rimbaud hoped both of them could pass, as this would increase their chances of getting closer to Vichis Prin.

This didn’t mean others were completely above suspicion, but based on experience, Rimbaud currently believed Vichis Prin’s behavior during the fire incident was abnormal at least inconsistent with common sense.

He needed more information to make accurate judgments.

If the previous information transmission occurred during the Sacred Ceremony, then among those who could access these wealthy individuals, Vichis Prin who only handled Choir rehearsals might not necessarily be involved.

And Besan Tobila where did her Ability Weapon come from?

These were all matters he needed to clarify.

…………

Selection day, back hall.

“Not many new children this time.”

Vichis Prin sat on a chair facing the choir seats designated for the assessment, propping his head with one hand.

A thin sheet of paper rested on his lap, already slipped halfway down, dangling precariously before being casually pressed down by his other hand.

He muttered to himself, his gaze slowly sweeping across the “new students” with apparent lack of enthusiasm.

His gaze lingered longer on the black-haired Moran and the golden-haired Musa than on all the others combined.

Those Kushneier brothers really are beautiful, he continued to marvel inwardly.

Ponteno certainly wasn’t exaggerating no wonder she insisted on taking them in, even at this critical juncture when they were under suspicion.

Ah, what a pity. It’s all been arranged already.

Vichis Prin pursed his lips and called them up one by one according to the order of names on the list, asking each to sing a passage.

For those who sang well, he would let them finish before announcing whether they passed or failed; for those who tortured the ears, he simply waved them offstage immediately.

But if Madam had already put in a word for someone, he had to follow her instructions and couldn’t change the outcome arbitrarily.

When one or two who sang poorly were still announced as having passed, he would brush it off by saying they had “talent,” and no one raised any objections.

The process moved quickly this time, and soon it was Moran Kushneier’s turn.

Vichis Prin smiled and nodded at the black-haired youth, who bowed stiffly, and nodded slightly again upon hearing the melodious and graceful folk tune.

There wasn’t a single flaw in his singing truly excellent. If he were the only judge, the answer would be a resounding pass.

“I’m sorry, dear Moran. You are truly outstanding, but you don’t meet my criteria.”

He rejected him very tactfully, and fortunately, the boy didn’t seem too discouraged, merely bowing slightly with a hint of disappointment before stepping down from the choir seats.

Next was the golden-haired Musa Kushneier, whose temperament was said to be truly awful he’d sent someone to the hospital on his second day at the academy.

Still, since his older brother sang so beautifully, surely the younger one wouldn’t be bad either. He could smoothly check the box on the list and report back to Madam…

“ ____ ___ ”

…It sounded as if some demonic murmuring had drifted up from hell.

Vichis Prin was so shocked he gaped, instantly sitting up straight.

With such an excellent vocal quality, how could he sing so horribly, completely off-key! Every rise and fall, every twist and turn of the syllables was so unconventional it was pure torture to his ears!

Dreadful, absolutely dreadful! Such singing was a disservice to his beauty!

But… Madam’s requirements had to be met… He himself didn’t mind, but the score was the key…

Vichis Prin gritted his teeth, then gritted them again, finally forcing out a few difficult words from his throat.

“You… you have talent, Mr. Musa… you pass.”

Not only Verlaine onstage, who had stubbornly finished singing, but also Rimbaud in the audience, well-versed in music theory, widened his eyes in astonishment

This Vichis Prin was definitely up to something!