Chapter 71

【INFORMATION: The Whispering Inside the Church】

【Recently, homeless individuals have claimed that, as night falls, a chilling whisper echoes from deep within St. Mark's Church shelter. The sound is fine as dry bones scraping, piercing as the wail of lost souls, its content indistinguishable. To prevent panic from spreading, investigators must uncover the truth within two days.】This novel is originally published on Du Xiao Shuo Xuan, Tian Tian Kan Xiao Shuo, 🅽🅲🅺🅢. 🆃🆆 — hassle-free reading with error-free, properly ordered chapters.

【Reward upon investigation: 1 Bronze Coin of the Ancient God, $100】

From the reward alone, it's clear this task is simple, but previous information missions have fully proven that simple clues often conceal vital leads to larger revelations.

So Roger did not underestimate this piece of information.

Fortunately, this afternoon he would accompany Mrs. Fiona and Natasha to the church — perhaps he could inquire about St. Mark's Church.

At lunchtime, when Mrs. Fiona saw the spicy snacks on the table, her expression brightened greatly.

She hugged Roger: "Oh my goodness, you didn't need to spend money on these — just having this chili sauce already makes me so happy."

"It's fine, I've been earning money delivering food lately." Roger picked up a bag of pickled bamboo shoots and handed it over: "I think you'd like this."

"The only problem is it's extremely spicy."

"Really?" Mrs. Fiona's eyes lit up, then she tore open the packaging.

Instantly, a rich aroma that triggered saliva production flooded her nostrils.

"Oh, God! This smell — I've never smelled anything so unique… Hmm, I must taste it right away!"

Mrs. Fiona plucked out a piece of bamboo shoot with her fingers and shoved it into her mouth, chewing tentatively.

But soon her eyes bulged like bells: "Oh my god! Oh my god!"

Then, like a steam engine revving up, she crammed several pieces into her mouth at once, ignoring the redness around her eyes from the heat.

Roger stared, dumbfounded.

Though he'd suspected Mrs. Fiona would like this, he never imagined she'd like it this much.

And Mrs. Fiona didn't even spare the pickled chilies or the brine — she swallowed them whole.

"God!"

Then, as if reawakened, the Black woman exclaimed in a loud voice: "Unbelievable, so amazing. Roger, this is incredible. No wonder Dongda doesn't do drugs, oh my god."

Though Roger knew Black people tended to exaggerate, he'd never seen such exaggeration before.

"Uh, Mrs. Fiona, if you like it, I can buy more."

"I… really like it." Mrs. Fiona fanned her mouth with her hand, then quickly drained a glass of milk.

"Even though it's really spicy, I swear I'm going to fill my fridge with these…"

"Pickled chilies."

"Pao jiao!"

"Pickled chilies."

"Pao jiao!"

Roger shrugged. Of course — he shouldn't have expected any accuracy in Black people's Chinese pronunciation.

After Mrs. Fiona developed her obsession with pickled chilies, that evening while watching TV, her mouth never stopped moving, constantly hissing and sucking air.

"It's all your fault! Fiona drank three bottles of water today!" Natasha sent a text complaining.

Roger smiled and typed back: "Getting hooked on pickled chilies is better than getting hooked on marijuana."

Mrs. Fiona naturally needed painkillers, but she never smoked weed.

It sounds strange — middle-class white families throw marijuana parties for fun, while this Black mother, despite her suffering, never buys marijuana.

But Meilijian is full of oddities — there are always some people who stand apart from their terrible environments.

Yet such people are few, and even when they exist, reality usually crushes them into conformity.

Like Robbie.

According to Mrs. Fiona, he was a good child who did well in school as a boy.

But because the family had no money and his mother was ill, he had to carry cement bags at construction sites every day. Later, to make big money, he joined a gang.

He didn't make big money — instead, he ended up in the hospital, facing a massive medical bill.

His mother is preparing to sell their house at a low price, but no one knows if anyone will want to live in this dangerous neighborhood.

…

The next morning, Roger drove with Mrs. Fiona and Natasha to St. John's Church.

They didn't go to St. Mark's because Americans prefer to pray at churches near their own neighborhoods — they usually know the priests there and donate regularly.

So coming here feels like returning to a second home.

As soon as Mrs. Fiona and Natasha entered the church, their expressions turned solemn. They sat on chairs, joining others in bowing their heads before the statue of Ye Su in prayer.

Roger, with nothing to do, stood out as conspicuously out of place.

He pretended to pray for a moment, then couldn't resist going outside to chat with the pastor.

Leveraging his status as a tenant in Mrs. Fiona's home, he successfully learned about St. Mark's Church from the pastor.

In short, St. Mark's is one of the more compassionate and well-known churches in Xiya.

Though the church itself is small and its monthly donations are modest compared to others, it operates a dedicated shelter for sick homeless people.

This is similar to St. John's — it also has a shelter, but accommodates far fewer people, since monthly donations are limited and cannot support a large operation.

In contrast, churches with massive donations rarely set up shelters internally; instead, they fund church-run shelters.

These shelters are managed by the government, which assigns beds and conducts regular intake.

The shelter where Zoe once stayed was one of them.

But some outrageous mega-churches don't engage in charity at all — or treat charity as mere face-saving theater.

For example, the famed Mars Hill Church, at its peak, had fifteen branches, weekly attendance over ten thousand, and collected $25 million annually in "tithes" alone.

Yet their charity toward the homeless amounted to a one-time donation of 1,500 coats.

So where did the rest of the money go?

On one hand, they were diverting donations; on the other, they were pouring believers' dollars into books published by their pastors, forcefully pushing them onto the bestseller list to promote the church.

But even so, plenty of believers still donated to the church.

You could say the dry ones died of drought, the waterlogged ones drowned in flood.

Utterly ironic.

After inquiring about St. Mark's situation, Roger asked the pastor for St. Mark's Church's contact information as well.

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is St. Mark's Church." A woman's voice came through.

"I'd like to ask — do you need volunteers?"

"Volunteers? Oh, of course we do. May I ask whether you have any relevant Medical Knowledge, or have participated in related projects?" the St. Mark's staff member asked.

"I've studied medical care."

"That's wonderful. Could you tell me your name? And when would you be able to come to the church?"

"My name is Roger. I can go tonight."

"That's really great. I'll write it down. When you arrive, just look for me — my name is Mary."

After hanging up the phone, Roger shrugged.

He hadn't expected them to be so eager, but before that, he had to go to Jie Ji Ting first to spend the Bronze coins he'd accumulated over the past few days.