Chapter 64: Professionalism

"Boris?"

York was somewhat surprised, giving Jeffrey a closer look. Boris was essentially the secret liaison between the official organization and the church.

In special or supernatural events, Boris had the authority to provide backup support or facilitate assistance, and in turn, York had the responsibility to help resolve supernatural incidents whenever Boris sought his help.

Now, Jeffrey had taken over this role of connection.

But York soon thought it made sense, given his personal connection with Jeffrey, who he had personally saved.

"Yes."

Jeffrey smiled, expressing his respect to the priest before him.

"Father York, if you need any help in the future, just let me know, and I will handle it with utmost seriousness."

York raised his eyebrows slightly, sensing Jeffrey's sincerity and understanding his intention. He made the sign of the cross and responded earnestly.

"I will, Officer Jeffrey."

"Hmm." Jeffrey took a deep breath, glancing back at the blood and bodies at the door.

"Do you need our help with this?"

Reminded of Mr. Woodrow and his group, York replied with a slight smile.

"No need, I've already called a cleaning company. They should be here soon."

"Ah..." Jeffrey nodded, understanding more than the average person due to his experience in homicide cases.

"I see."

"Right."

York's smile remained as he began to see the officers out.

"Thank you for coming, Officer Jeffrey."

With three police cars around, those unsavory 'cleaners' might not dare to show up.

Jeffrey quickly understood, nodding slightly.

"Good night, Father York. We're heading back now."

York made the sign of the cross.

"Good night, Officer Jeffrey. May you have pleasant dreams, and may the Lord be with you."

"Thank you."

After a final glance at the door, Jeffrey signaled his officers and strode back to the patrol cars. Under York's gaze, they quickly left the scene.

As they left, York looked to his right, just as two vehicles resembling cleaning vans quietly arrived and stopped in front of him.

The first to step out was a skinny old man wearing a fisherman's hat. He approached York, took off his hat to reveal his sparse white hair, and respectfully said.

"Father York, it's a pleasure to see you again."

York looked past the old man to the burly men carrying cleaning tools, looking somewhat out of place but very eye-catching.

"Yes, me too, Charlie."

As he spoke, York stepped aside, gesturing toward the messy doorway.

"Can you clean it up thoroughly?"

Charlie, the old man, gave a reserved chuckle. "No problem, Father York."

He waved his right hand slightly, and the ten brawny men behind him sprang into action, moving towards the church.

Two began dealing with the blood, organs, and bodies at the entrance, while the rest entered the church.

Watching the efficient yet bold cleaning, York turned to Charlie.

"How much, Charlie?"

Charlie hesitated. These cleaners, who serviced assassins, usually charged in the assassins' currency - one unit per task, be it a body or a favor, even a drink.

"This..."

He glanced at the priest, knowing York likely didn't have their currency. Guessing a price based on the exchange rate between money and their currency, Charlie tentatively offered.

"One million?"

"Excuse me?"

York was taken aback. His fortune was barely over two million, and cleaning a few bodies and some ketchup was costing him half of it?

Noticing Charlie's reaction, York's eyes narrowed slightly, and a formidable aura naturally arose.

"Are you sure it's one million?"

"Yes, Father York..."

Before Charlie could explain their pricing, he suddenly felt a shift in the priest's demeanor. In an instant, the towering figure seemed to grow, pressing down on him.

For a moment, Charlie felt breathless, his heart racing, and his head about to explode under the heavy pressure.

"Charlie?"

Noticing the old man's obvious change, York quickly retracted his unintentional psychic projection, a hint of regret in his eyes.

He had always been somewhat fixated on money issues due to his past life.

"Ah..."

With the pressure gone, Charlie gasped for air, collapsing to the ground. He looked up at the now alien priest, feeling only terror and awe at this frightening being.

"Sorry, Charlie, my mistake."

Feeling slightly guilty, York forcibly grabbed Charlie's evasive hand and helped him up.

"I don't have much money right now. Could you give me a discount? How about half a million?"

After such an ordeal, Charlie wasn't in a position to refuse, not even mentioning their rules and regulations.

"Okay, okay, Father."

Seeing Charlie's increasing humility and distance, York understood his feelings.

A regular person's psychic strength averages at ten points, while York's was eight times the norm. Simply put, he had an overwhelming presence.

Fortunately, he could control his psychic power and its output, or else he couldn't go anywhere.

With that in mind, York looked at the startled Charlie and said,

"Charlie, could you give me an account number? I'll transfer the money tomorrow."

Charlie carefully wrote down an account number, handing it over with even more respect.

"Father York, you can transfer the money whenever you're ready."

"Alright."

York took the paper, not bothering to explain the incident to Charlie. The world of ordinary people, even those in special industries, was far removed from his.

"Thank you, Charlie."

Charlie nodded obediently, holding his hat to his chest in respect.

York paid no mind as Charlie cautiously stepped back, turning to the door.

Sometime during the conversation, the cleaners at the entrance had disappeared without a trace.

York's eyes narrowed. The entrance now looked as good as new, with no sign of blood or debris. It was indistinguishable from its usual state.

Before York could figure out how they had cleaned it so thoroughly, the previously missing cleaners emerged, each carrying a shrouded body.

Watching them calmly load each body into the vans, York remembered the assassin's introduction.

"Professionalism..."