Chapter 186: The Flaw
Yu Sheng fought meticulously. First, he used the Spiked Club to thoroughly break the left leg of the Heretic Cultist, then meticulously pulverized the right leg. Afterward, he targeted both arms, being careful to avoid the restraint shackles installed by the Special Affairs Bureau. He repeatedly struck each limb until they were thoroughly smashed—soft and gelatinous.
At first, the Angel Cultist was stunned, then he began to scream and hurl curses. Occasionally, inhuman noises would emerge from his throat—sharp, layered screeches hinting at something else hidden within the human shell, something that struggled to break free, only to be beaten back down repeatedly by Yu Sheng.
Eventually, the Heretic Cultist tried to resist or squirm away. However, his entire body—even his insides—was implanted with suppressive devices by the Special Affairs Bureau. Restrictive rings at his joints rendered large movements impossible, while neural inhibitors dulled his mind, preventing him from casting any spells.
Sometimes, when the Angel Cultist struggled too violently and seemed on the verge of breaking through his restraints, Irene would step in. Her black threads, capable of subduing even the terrifying Wolf Granny and the Dark Angel-empowered Hunger, effortlessly bound the weakened, shackled human.
After an indeterminate time, Yu Sheng finally stopped, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He carried the Tetanus Staff to a nearby bed and nodded to Foxy. “Heal him.”
“Understood!” Foxy answered promptly, approaching the Angel Cultist. She traced complex and arcane symbols in the air before hovering her hands above his head. A faint golden-red glow emanated from her eyes as the cultist’s brutal injuries rapidly healed before their eyes.
Watching from the side, Irene widened her eyes and couldn’t help but exclaim, “Wow, silly Fox, that’s impressive! I didn’t believe you could actually heal when you mentioned it at home. Never saw you use it before.”
Foxy glanced at Yu Sheng, her tone carrying a hint of grievance. “There’s never a chance to use it—Irene doesn’t need healing, and I never get to heal Benefactor…”
Meanwhile, the Angel Cultist, who had almost fainted from the ordeal, slowly came to his senses. The once serene and detached bald man, who seemed indifferent to life and death, now lay bloodied and tattered, a picture of utter misery. Yet, just as Song Cheng predicted, he endured all physical torment without the slightest plea for mercy, his eyes fixed on Yu Sheng with a flicker of both anger and disdain.
Yu Sheng seemed entirely unconcerned by the cultist’s expression, calmly raising the club once more.
“Foolish and vulgar,” the cultist spat, blood foaming from his mouth, his words tinged with mockery. “Do you know the hardships we’ve overcome in pursuit of truth? Do you comprehend the trials our resolve can withstand?”
Yu Sheng shook his head lightly. “I have no idea. I’m just doing it for fun.”
In the next moment, as the cultist looked on in stunned disbelief, Yu Sheng once again swung the club high.
Three times it was like this—three rounds of healing.
As the healing glow faded away, the Angel Cultist’s eyes fluttered open once more. He saw the enigmatic torturer sitting calmly on the opposite bed, the fearsome club resting to one side. Yu Sheng’s usual serene smile remained on his face as he looked over without uttering a word or needing any answer.
The Angel Cultist panted heavily. Though his body had been healed, something far more profound than physical wounds seemed to have infiltrated his soul—a corrosive scar that pierced through the barrier of sanity, etching itself deep into his spirit, which had once been blessed by the Messenger. He glared at the calm, smiling torturer, desperately trying to decipher the man’s intentions.
The spiritual vision granted by the Messenger should have allowed him to see through all deceptions. He had used it to unravel every interrogator’s trick, to pierce through hypnosis, and to see past the nerve stimulators and cerebral injections that manufactured false memories and illusions during his previous interrogations. That power had safeguarded his mind through every trial so far.
But now, as he focused on the figure sitting on the bed, he suddenly realized that the figure had vanished.
Instead, he saw a gaping black void—pure, empty, and infinite—like an abyss of death. The torn chasm of nothingness loomed larger and closer, as if consuming the entire world. Even the whispered voices of his “Lord” seemed drowned out, isolated by that void.
The Angel Cultist gasped more violently, as if a long-buried emotion was reviving from the depths of his soul. Doubt surfaced within his mind, rapidly swelling in his consciousness, repeating again and again:
What does it want? What does this void desire to know? What is its purpose?
The void answered, responding to the questions arising within his consciousness—
It wants nothing. It needs no response.
The void floated closer, drifting toward him.
The emotion that had silently revived suddenly surged—ah, it was fear.
Not fear of physical pain, but fear born from witnessing that ultimate void, that absolute lack of desire. The Angel Cultist awoke abruptly, seeing the void collapse back into the form of the Interrogator.
He instinctively shrank his neck back, but in that split second of shrinking, the Heretic Cultist felt a sudden, intense premonition—something was wrong!
But it was too late.
A bizarre, chilling sensation struck without warning. This coldness was not unfamiliar—the last time he tried to struggle, that eerie Doll had bound his body with cold, threadlike strands. But this time, the cold didn’t come from his limbs; it pierced directly into his consciousness, stabbing into his very soul.
The Heretic Cultist struggled to raise his head, his hazy vision seeming to glimpse the floor crawling with ‘hair’—thin, black threads wriggling like living strands, burrowing into his flesh. At the other end of these ‘hairs’ stood the small, doll-like figure—the Doll herself—her crimson eyes glinting with a trace of a smile.
She opened her mouth, forming silent words: ‘You’re afraid.’
The next moment, darkness swallowed the world.
The bald Heretic Cultist collapsed to the ground, consciousness fading abruptly as if he had suddenly fallen asleep.
Yu Sheng cautiously approached, using his Spiked Club to poke the man’s thigh, ensuring he showed no signs of waking up before glancing back at Irene, who was still carefully controlling the black threads.
‘You really just dragged him in like that?’ Yu Sheng asked.
‘Of course,’ Irene replied proudly, but quickly furrowed her brow. ‘Honestly, it wasn’t easy. Usually, forcing someone into a dream is much less strenuous—but this guy’s mind was almost flawless, resilient to the extreme. It was only because he unexpectedly panicked just now that I caught the opportunity.’
‘Considering how long we’ve been beating him up, a moment of panic seems pretty normal,’ Yu Sheng muttered thoughtfully, glancing at the unconscious cultist while resting his Spiked Club by the bed. ‘Still, I’m impressed at how much he withstood.’
Shaking his head, he looked back at Irene. ‘Forget it, no point overthinking. How’s it going on your end? Has the dream erosion stabilized? Can you pull me in?’
‘Almost,’ Irene nodded, cautiously maintaining control over the black threads crawling over the Heretic Cultist’s body. ‘Lie down beside him. I’ll bring you in, but once you’re there, be careful. Don’t make too much noise—he hasn’t realized he’s dreaming yet. If the inconsistency becomes too obvious, he might wake up.’
‘Relax. I know how to keep it subtle,’ Yu Sheng replied, settling himself on the small bed and calming his breathing.
‘I’m ready.’
Sitting on the bed’s edge, Irene raised one hand, gently brushing Yu Sheng’s forehead. Her small hand was soft, warm—almost human—but the next moment, a sudden chill surged through him.
Black spider silk shot into his flesh, dragging Yu Sheng’s consciousness into the chaos.
In the blurry, surreal void, Yu Sheng caught glimpses of phantasms—bizarre, kaleidoscopic visions flitting past. Eventually, his sight focused on a vast, shimmering web woven from interlocking black threads, forming a spiderweb-like structure. At the center of the web crouched a shadowy figure with crimson eyes, meticulously weaving threads into intricate patterns.
Yu Sheng’s consciousness hurtled toward the web’s center. He saw the shadowy figure lift its arms, grasping two strands—one of which stretched out from Yu Sheng’s perspective. The figure brought the two threads together, tying them with a neat butterfly knot.
‘…You didn’t have to tie it so delicately,’ Yu Sheng murmured, half dazed.
‘A butterfly knot looks pretty,’ the shadowy figure replied in Irene’s voice.
The next instant, Yu Sheng opened his eyes again.
He found himself walking through an abandoned warehouse, dressed in unfamiliar clothing. Everything around him was shrouded in a hazy veil, muffling sounds and smearing outlines.
Footsteps echoed within the cavernous space, hollow and distorted. Faint, indistinct noises buzzed at the edge of his hearing, as if they were thoughts manifesting directly from his mind.
After a brief moment of confusion, Yu Sheng instantly realized—
He was now hidden within a fragment of the Angel Cultist’s memory.