Trafford's Trading Club

Chapter 954: Sin (5)

After carefully sprinkling selected sea salt over the freshly pan-fried meat, Bucky picked up the plate, placed it in front of him, and took a deep breath, savoring the aroma of cooked meat.

There was nothing more satisfying for him than starting the morning with a special grilled steak for breakfast.

Meat is justice!

But just as Bucky was about to dig in, the video phone behind him suddenly rang.

It was Mr. Besong, the self-proclaimed "High Priest" of the Divine Church and also the manor's chief steward. He called to inform Bucky that Saint Francis had come to visit.

This instantly ruined Bucky's good mood, reminding him of the horrifying memory of being left exposed on the rooftop—the incident from last night.

In the end, Bucky didn’t buy the answer from the club’s tablet.

Not because he couldn’t bear to part with the 100,000 units of faith, but simply because he didn’t have enough faith units—his total was just over 30,000.

Why?

Of course, it was because he had already spent a fortune on stocking up the manor's special meat supplies. Everyone in the manor knew that the Divine Envoy loved meat and couldn’t go a day without it, eating five meat-centric meals daily.The cold storage room, dedicated exclusively to the Divine Envoy’s food supply, was even guarded 24/7.

Due to the recent large purchase, Bucky’s faith units were running low, and he simply couldn’t afford the answer requiring 100,000 units.

Still, Doflamingo clearly wasn’t the one who left him unconscious on the rooftop. Otherwise, why would the answer cost 100,000 units?

"Ugh, so annoying..." Bucky frowned, then instructed, "Besong, have him wait for me in the living room."

---

When the Divine Envoy finally appeared before Saint Francis, it had been two hours since the latter arrived at the manor.

"My apologies. I have a habit of praying to my god upon waking in the morning," Bucky said with a humble smile as he appeared, feigning courtesy. "I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Saint Francis."

"Perhaps it’s precisely because of your piety that you were chosen to receive divine revelations," Saint Francis replied with a well-timed compliment and a polite smile.

"So, what brings you here so early, Saint Francis?" Bucky asked indifferently while glancing at Miss Cossini, who had accompanied him.

Saint Francis suddenly said, "Envoy, regarding what happened last night, may I speak with you privately?"

Bucky hesitated, but Besong intervened sternly, "Apologies, Saint Francis, but you are not yet a believer of our church. You cannot meet the Envoy privately."

Saint Francis frowned, evidently unprepared for Besong’s interruption. However, Besong’s calm yet firm gaze left him momentarily speechless.

"It’s fine, Besong," Bucky unexpectedly interjected. "I also have some things to discuss with Saint Francis privately. Everyone else, leave us."

"Understood!" Besong immediately complied, then turned to Miss Cossini with a gesture to escort her out—executing Bucky’s orders to the letter without the slightest deviation.

Soon, only Bucky and Saint Francis remained in the reception room.

Bucky smiled faintly and gestured toward the sofa. "No need to stand. Let’s sit."

Saint Francis nodded cautiously, carefully observing the seating area. From the moment he entered, he had been on high alert, not even drinking the water the servants brought.

Since he knew the Envoy was a master of hypnosis, anything in the room could potentially serve as a tool for psychological suggestion.

Yet, nothing here seemed capable of inducing such effects—no patterned flooring, no repetitive ticking clocks, and no optical illusions in artwork. In fact, there wasn’t a single painting in the room.

As for scents, Saint Francis, trained in identifying various smells, detected nothing unusual.

That left only language as a potential threat. As long as he kept his mind clear...

Saint Francis smiled and cautiously sat down. However, the moment he did, his gaze turned completely vacant, and his thoughts froze in time.

Yawning lazily, Bucky sat across from him. The instant Saint Francis approached the sofa, Bucky had cast a charm spell on him—quick and efficient.

"Slap yourself," Bucky said abruptly.

Saint Francis’s blank stare didn’t waver as he raised his hand and swung it toward his own face. Just before impact, Bucky shouted, "Stop!"

The hand froze, less than half a centimeter from Saint Francis’s cheek.

Satisfied, Bucky nodded. Only those under a charm spell would react like this. The spell caused them to act on commands without conscious thought, making the halt immediate.

Why stop him? To avoid leaving any pain that might raise suspicions when Saint Francis regained consciousness.

Bucky had dealt with Doflamingo for years and knew his seemingly reckless but overly cautious nature.

"Now, let’s talk business, Doflamingo," Bucky said with a smirk. "Do you know how I ended up on the rooftop last night?"

In a monotone voice, Saint Francis replied, "I don’t know. According to Cossini, when she woke up, the Envoy was already gone."

Bucky frowned, realizing it wasn’t Doflamingo’s doing. This only deepened the mystery.

Did he really have to save up 100,000 units of faith to get the answer? But... 100,000 units could buy so much meat...

Sighing, Bucky changed the subject. "Doflamingo, how did you become Saint Francis? And what’s your plan now? I hear you want to be the president."

Saint Francis then recounted how he had transformed from a core member of the Imperial Command into a philanthropist.

Long before being imprisoned, Doflamingo had already started building a secret identity as Saint Francis, laying low and working toward "cleaning up" his image. After his imprisonment, Saint Francis’s activities became more prominent.

As for how Doflamingo maintained the Saint Francis persona from prison, Bucky didn’t care. After all, he himself had lived comfortably behind bars.

"I do intend to become president..."

“Smart people wait for the perfect timing.”

“If I could leverage the messenger and his network, it would be a great boost to my campaign. That’s also why I’m here today.”

“Cossini is indeed my adopted daughter, but I’ve never laid a hand on her. However, she’s highly dependent on certain substances, so I don’t worry about her betraying me.”

“When I become president, what I want to do is…”

As Saint Francis began to answer this question, Bucky noticed a hint of struggle on his face.

“What I want to do is… is… is…”

The look of struggle on Saint Francis’s face grew more intense, causing Bucky to frown.

This was no surprise. When Bucky had purchased the charm spell, he had been warned that it might fail against someone with extraordinary willpower, especially if it touched upon a deeply held principle.

“Stop. I’m not interested in knowing what you plan to do as president,” Bucky interrupted quickly.

Saint Francis’s expression gradually returned to normal.

Bucky silently contemplated for a moment, occasionally glancing at Saint Francis. Finally, he made a decision.

---

The messenger and Saint Francis spent an hour and a half in deep conversation in the reception room. When they finally emerged, both appeared amiable and cheerful.

Saint Francis, in particular, left with an unwavering smile on his face.

Standing in the manor, Bucky watched the car carrying Saint Francis and Cossini slowly drive away, a satisfied grin on his own face.

Unbeknownst to Doflamingo, under the guise of Saint Francis, he had already revealed many truths during their conversation. Upon regaining his full faculties, he had proceeded with his original plan to propose collaboration with Bucky—an offer Bucky readily accepted, as expected.

“Hmm… Even though Doflamingo has regained his senses, as long as I don’t lift the charm spell, it’s like there’s a bomb planted inside him. He can’t escape my control. Ha! It’s perfectly fine to help him rise to power.”

Bucky thought smugly to himself, marveling at his own cleverness.

But just then, Besong came running in, flustered and out of breath.

“Messenger! Messenger! Another ‘Messenger of God’ has arrived to see you!”

“Oh, another ‘Messenger of God,’ huh? Sure, let them wait in the reception roo—what did you just say??”

“An-another ‘Messenger of God’!” Besong was visibly excited. “It’s true! I’ve witnessed her miraculous powers firsthand! It’s truly astonishing!”

---

In the research facility of a pharmaceutical company, Mr. Blind was reviewing the final observation report on the zombie test subject, Natasha. In just a few hours, he would leave for the airport to rendezvous with the Song family and return to China.

Also present in the office was the deputy team leader of the research group, Harutaka Oki, a talented thirty-something Japanese researcher.

Harutaka reported, “Sir, the decomposition rate of the zombie test subject has reached 30%, and it seems irreversible. Despite our attempts, nothing works. Moreover, we’ve extracted and tested its cells, but they contain only intracellular fluid—other components have dissolved into it. There’s no neural activity... It’s a mystery how it moves and why it craves fresh flesh.”

“If it were easy to understand, it wouldn’t be so mysterious,” Mr. Blind replied calmly, closing the Braille report in his hands. “Store it in the liquid nitrogen tank for now. We’ll resume research when I return.”

“Yes, sir,” Harutaka nodded.

Song Da entered the room, announcing that the car was ready and the Cold Residence had made all preparations.

Mr. Blind acknowledged the message, leaving the team with final instructions before departing.

---

Blood trickled from Song Haoran’s wrist.

Despite his earlier assurances, Gloria had not received any fresh blood in his absence and was severely weakened.

Without a word, Song Haoran approached her, allowing his blood to flow into her mouth.

“Rest assured, from now on, someone will regularly bring you food,” he said softly.

Gloria, though somewhat rejuvenated, remained silent, resentful after days of torment and forced confessions under Song Haoran’s relentless methods.

“Gloria,” he suddenly whispered, lifting her chin with a smirk. “Why not consider borrowing my human strength?”

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You?”

“Exactly,” Song Haoran replied nonchalantly. “With your mother’s situation, no matter what you do, you won’t save her—at best, you’ll shorten her sentence. But punishment isn’t always about the crime. It’s about power. If you could fight back, you wouldn’t fear making mistakes, right?”

Gloria bit her lip hard, trembling with suppressed emotion.

“Think it over,” Song Haoran chuckled softly, patting her head. “I hope to hear a favorable answer when I return.”

---

Outside a room, a servant called, “Young Master Qiu, the car is ready.”

Shortly after, Luo Qiu emerged with a small suitcase and a stack of books, instructing the servant to return the books to their original places in the study.

“Really, Young Master Qiu, you shouldn’t trouble yourself,” the servant protested, taking the books from him.

Luo Qiu smiled faintly, carrying his light luggage as he headed out alone.

In the hallway, Song Ying appeared, her once pink-purple hair now dyed black and tied in a ponytail. She called out, “What are you doing, standing there? Everyone’s waiting!”

Luo Qiu quickened his pace, smiling as he caught up.

“Why are you staring?” Song Ying asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Just surprised,” Luo Qiu replied.

Rolling her eyes, she explained, “We’re visiting the ancestral graves, so of course I had to look proper!”

“You look great,” Luo Qiu said sincerely.

Blushing slightly, Song Ying muttered, “Thanks.”

With that, their South American journey came to an end—a fitting conclusion marked by a smile.