The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

Chapter 144 The Old Viscount's Funeral

At two o'clock in the afternoon, the church bells in the distance rang on time.

The dull tolling of bells echoed through the thin winter sunlight on the decaying lake, reverberating above Paradise Island Estate.

The main gate of the mansion slowly opened.

The heavy black curtains swallowed up all the light in the hall, leaving only the flickering candlelight casting a dim and unstable yellow glow.

The summoned professional funeral director, dressed in a black suit, solemnly stepped forward and slowly carried the oak coffin draped with the family's white rose coat of arms out of the central hall.

The white rose embroidered on the flag was soaked by the cold air, and shimmered with a pale, watery light in the candlelight.

Carson, the butler, walked at the head of the procession with his head held high. It was hard to imagine that anyone could blend solemnity and grief so perfectly as he did. Some great artists would also be praised if they could capture this image.

Behind him, the old night watchman, Mo Mo, silently led four tenant representatives to steadily carry the coffin.

George was dressed in a meticulously tailored black funeral suit, his top hat pulled low, obscuring most of his face, which appeared even paler.

The cold air brushed against his cheeks, bringing with it a mixture of the scents of lake water and frozen earth.

As the chief mourner, he walked alone behind the coffin, the position of the heir, a lonely position.

From this moment on, the weight of the De La Porte surname will rest on his shoulders.

Looking at Jian Fang's coffin, he felt a mix of emotions he couldn't express.

The viscount's body was burned to ashes during the ceremony. Fortunately, Thomas, who was released, fainted from crying once and managed to point out the original preserved body of the "Wax Eagle".

The body now in the coffin, adorned with the Order of the White Rose and about to be buried, is undoubtedly something that has witnessed the presence of a viscount for a relatively long time.

Uncle Albert, cousin Arthur, and younger brother Frederick followed behind the new Viscount.

Frederick's face didn't show much sadness, but anyone with eyes could see from his constantly fidgeting hands and hesitant eyes that the second son's heart was far from at peace.

Arthur's expression was the most complex, while Uncle Albert remained as silent and composed as ever.

On the other side of the male family members was a line of male guests.

Leading the way was a serious-looking, dignified man, around fifty years old.

He had a thin face and prominent cheekbones, and wore a black tuxedo without a single wrinkle.

Although this person did not appear to be strict, his presence was so prominent that other guests unconsciously kept a distance from him.

Following them were the manor's male servants, grooms, gardeners, and others.

They had all changed into solemn clothes, their expressions sorrowful and respectful.

The procession walked through a courtyard strewn with fallen leaves, past a silent fountain and bare hedges, and along a frost-covered forest path on the west side toward the family chapel.

The forest was eerily quiet; even the birdsong had vanished, save for the sound of footsteps and the low echo of distant waves lapping against the icy shore.

At 2:30 p.m., the procession arrived at the chapel.

This small building, which was urgently repaired within ten days using special methods, has been restored to its original state.

In the dim light inside, the newly cleaned ancestral monuments and flags on the walls appear even more solemn, while candles burn quietly in the corners, bringing a touch of warmth to the hall illuminated by the cold winter sun.

The female relatives were already waiting at the family table. The old lady Violet sat at the head of the table, while her sister Sybil sat beside her, their slightly red eyes concealed by black veils.

The coffin was placed gently on the coffin stand in front of the altar, covered by the white rose coat of arms.

The archdeacon sent by York Minster went to the altar, opened a thick book of prayers he had brought, and began to read.

"I was born in sin, my mother conceived me in sin—"

A steady yet penetrating voice, carrying ancient scriptures, echoed beneath the stone dome, imbued with an irresistible sense of destiny.

Then, the archdeacon led everyone in singing an ancient hymn.

The melody of "Live With Me" flowed gently, its harmonies blending with the cool light streaming in from the window, creating a sacred tranquility within the chapel.

However, the aloof noble guest did not sing loudly; he merely nodded slightly and his chest rose and fell with the melody.

After the song was finished, the archdeacon closed the book and began a brief recap of the deceased's life.

He mentioned that Viscount Edward de la Porte was exceptionally talented and tirelessly pursued knowledge and skills; he was kind and dedicated to the affairs of the estate; and he made memorable contributions to educational institutions and charitable causes in Yorkshire.

His words were conventional, completely avoiding any mention of alchemy, the supernatural, or family secrets, leaving only the image of a viscount conforming to worldly norms.

George listened, his heart filled with mixed emotions.

This is perhaps the image the father hoped to leave in the world's memory: a dutiful, generous, and slightly mysterious nobleman, rather than a superhuman who ultimately burned himself out.

At 3 p.m., the group walked out of the back door of the chapel and headed toward the family cemetery not far away.

The graves had already been dug there, awaiting the new resting persons.

The coffin was slowly lowered into the dark pit, and the white rose banner fluttered gently in the wind one last time.

George stood by the grave, looking down at the dark brown coffin.

He reached out and grabbed a handful of cold, damp soil, feeling the texture of the soil particles sliding and crumbling under his fingertips.

He gently sprinkled soil onto the coffin, the soil falling with a dull, soft sound.

"Dust to dust, ashes to ashes."

From then on, his father was buried here, and he became the new guardian.

At that moment, the Yorkshire delegation representative, a colonel wearing medals on his chest, stepped forward.

At the colonel's command, a squad of honor guards behind him, dressed in red uniforms and standing in neat rows, raised their bayonets in unison, the dark muzzles pointing towards the leaden-gray winter sky.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Three crisp gunshots shattered the silence in succession, and the smoke slowly rose into the cold air before dissipating into nothingness.

As the smoke cleared, the slow, deliberate movement and transfer that is characteristic of the end of the ceremony followed.

Four o'clock in the afternoon.

After the burial ceremony was completely over, the guests silently returned to the mansion.

The restaurant has been set up as a buffet venue, with long tables laden with cold cuts, various cheeses, fruits, wines, and specially made dark cakes.

There was no music, no laughter, and not even loud conversation.

Guests removed their heavy coats, but most kept their black gloves and ties, which kept the restaurant in a solemn sea of ​​black.

George stood at the restaurant entrance, as the new owner, he had to greet every guest who came to pay their respects.

He would nod slightly to each guest as they passed by and exchange a few brief and polite greetings.

His gaze swept over the faces, some familiar and some unfamiliar, while his mind quickly sorted out the possible connections and impacts of each identity.

This was probably what he had been hoping for ever since he returned from the sanatorium—noble status, power and resources, and the chance to rise to the top of the kingdom and realize his countless plans...

probably.