Facing an Ancient God for a Year

Chapter 1746: Chapter 1741: Bitter Fruit (35)

The question of whether the "it" that cannot be named truly exists is indeed an intriguing one.

After all, theoretically speaking, the experiences along the way to Cold Mountain Town fully support the populace fabricating such a threat out of nothing.

And I’ve roamed the night many times without encountering a single hair, not to mention the initial therapy in the Dream had Dorian’s methods full of inducement.

It’s basically exhausting every trick to make the outsiders, the subject of the Dream, believe there is such an "it," thus promoting its actual appearance.

This undeniable act of deception to some extent makes the reality of "it" existing seem less optimistic.

It’s just that I didn’t give face at the time and didn’t cooperate.

And the fact proves that without pressure, there will be no progress.

Last time the inducement didn’t succeed, and Dorian clearly did not have hope for that method.

But under the threat I brought, he deeply knew this was a treatment allowing only victory, not defeat.

Finally, in such dire straits, Dorian decisively came up with something new, a purely summoned errand boy.

Compared to others, that strange fourth person clearly had no special powers or gifts, but his fear of the night was top-notch.

So it didn’t matter that he was just instantly killed by the Insect Flow; his sole purpose here was to summon that "it" from the night without my cooperation.

As for why he specifically can do that?

Given his conspicuous mediocrity compared to others, Fu Qian naturally thought again of a previously considered attribute—outsider.

The probability of this identity being real feels increasingly likely.

And if it’s true, the eventual fates of those patients once treated by Doctor Dorian don’t seem too optimistic.

"Pleasure to meet you, how should I address you?"

Thoughts quickly flashed through Fu Qian’s mind as he nodded slightly in response to the greetings from the night.

The opponent, after a successful strike, did not rush to expand the victory but quietly stood there, scrutinizing the unyielding me.

...

It’s not pure social etiquette.

Though aware Dorian considers this a trump card to force me back to the church.

For this night executor, Fu Qian is still quite willing to meet here.

Right now, I’m originally seeking a special opportunity to break the stalemate; how could one possibly let go of something special like this easily?

If given a choice, Fu Qian undoubtedly hopes it does exist.

Even if it doesn’t exist in the reality of Cold Mountain, witnessing it in this manner in the healing Dream, to Fu Qian, is worthwhile.

Although the figure’s appearance is far from abstract, even startlingly "humane."

Not an unnameable entity hidden in the Darkness, nor a grotesque flesh-accumulation, instead it appears human.

Well-fitting attire, seemingly melded with the night, with its myriad metallic trinkets clinking on it.

Compared to the difficult-to-assess aesthetic of this appearance, the hat atop the head is visibly exquisite.

Though similar in style to what Ben wore, this is clearly much more refined.

Besides this sartorial flair, one can even clearly see the face beneath the hat—it is indeed a human visage yet unrecognizable.

Because every inch of the exposed skin is a ghastly white, revealing no texture or contours.

That is evidently unlikely to be the original skin tone, instead seeming as if meticulously painted.

...

Or is it paint mixed with bone ash?

A mere glance evokes a sense of familiarity, reminding Fu Qian of the exploration experience in the Sea of Ashes not long ago.

Although somewhat different in hue, there is indeed a resemblance.

It’s also apparent this entity is quite fond of this disguise.

Not only the face, its ungloved left hand bares the same shade, likely smeared with this substance over the entire body.

At this moment, its hand grips an oversized odd-shaped long knife, even taller than itself.

Yet, for once, the narrow sharp blade hasn’t been painted white; instead, it glistens with a layer of damp liquid.

Transparent and slick, it emits no special scent, as if it merely hadn’t been wiped clean after maintenance.

But the reason Fu Qian pays particular attention is simple—the very knife had cleft his heart in two, and the wound still hasn’t healed.

Indeed, one can feel distinctly where the blade passed through, some force adhering to the wound, imparting a sinister effect.

It’s not merely preventing healing; it’s akin to telling the body it’s already healed.

For instance, Fu Qian knew without needing to look down that his sliced chest showed no drop of blood, like it had been glued shut immediately—truly miraculous.

Regrettably, the opponent doesn’t seem too fond of conversation, showing no response to Fu Qian’s courteous address.

Concerned about interference?

To this, Fu Qian remains unperturbed, even empathetically finding a rational concern based on the adversary’s makeup style.

"Nice weapon, what should it be called?"

Even so, such a good beginning cannot be easily dismissed.

Not interested in discussing oneself? One can always start with hobbies—many take great pride in their weapons.

"Broken..."

As it is said, sincerity moves metals and stones; facing an opponent who withstood a slash and still amicably conversed, the white-faced swordsman finally responded.

If this is indeed the weapon’s name, it undoubtedly recalls tales of "its" atrocities among the church congregation.

This blade is truly fitting for slaughtering beings, paired with the no-blood special effect, it indeed exudes a sadistic pleasure.

While critiquing, Fu Qian casually drew his own weapon as well.

"I see, mine is called Mercy—"

Yet regrettably, the other party doesn’t seem interested in reciprocity.

Upon confirming Fu Qian remained vigorous with no sign of faltering, the left hand wielding the knife swung viciously once more, abruptly interrupting him.

Clang!

This time, there was indeed sound, albeit provided by Fu Qian.

His equally bare right hand wore a metallic glove, firmly clutching the long knife already grazing his neck.

Swiftly indeed, and cruel enough.

Missing the kill zone on the first strike, this swing aimed to decapitate in one go.

But not enough.