Chapter 186

Chapter 186: Loophole

Yu Sheng hit him carefully.

First he shattered the cultist’s left leg with the spiked club. Then the right. Then both arms. He avoided the suppression shackles installed by the Bureau, but everywhere else he hammered again and again until flesh and bone turned soft, mangled, and disturbingly springy.

At first, the angel cultist was too stunned to react. Then he started screaming and cursing, sometimes making sounds no human throat should be able to produce. Beneath the muffled, jagged howls was another noise layered in—overlapping, crawling, like something else hid inside that human shell. Something that tried to claw its way out, only to be beaten back down by Yu Sheng over and over.

The cultist tried to resist. Tried to twist away. But suppression devices were installed all over him, inside and out. Restraints locked his joints so he couldn’t make any meaningful movement, and the neural suppressor made it nearly impossible to focus enough to cast a spell.

A few times, he thrashed so violently he almost forced his way past the restraints. That was when Irene stepped in. Her black silk threads had controlled the terrifying “Wolf Granny” and even the “Hunger” strengthened by dark angels. Controlling a weakened, bound human was effortless.

After who knew how long, Yu Sheng finally stopped. He wiped the thin sheen of sweat from his forehead, carried the tetanus staff back to the bed, sat down, and nodded at Foxy.

“Heal him.”

“Mm!” Foxy answered at once. She stepped to the cultist’s side and traced several profound, complex sigils in the air. Then she held her hand above his head. A faint gold-red glow filled her eyes, and the cultist’s horrific wounds began closing at a speed visible to the naked eye.

Irene watched, wide-eyed. “Hey, Silly Fox, that’s really good… You said you could heal back home and I didn’t even believe you. I never see you use it.”

“There’s usually no need,” Foxy said, glancing at Yu Sheng with a trace of resentment. “Irene doesn’t need healing. Benefactor never has time to be healed…”

The angel cultist finally stirred awake. The bald man who’d looked so transcendent earlier—eyes calm, like he’d seen through life and death—was now drenched in blood, clothes torn to shreds, miserable beyond words. And yet, just as Song Cheng had said, he endured the pain without begging. He only stared at Yu Sheng with anger and contempt.

Yu Sheng didn’t care about his expression in the slightest. He picked up the club and walked over, gaze steady.

“Stupid and crude,” the cultist rasped, baring his teeth. Bloody foam bubbled at the corner of his mouth. Even like this, his words carried mockery. “Do you know what suffering we overcame to follow truth? Do you know how much trial our will can withstand?”

“I don’t,” Yu Sheng said, shaking his head. “I’m just hitting you for fun.”

Under the cultist’s stunned gaze, Yu Sheng raised the club again.

Three cycles like that. Three healings.

When the last glow of healing faded, the cultist—who had passed out again—opened his eyes once more.

Across from him, the mysterious “interrogator” sat on the bed. The terrifying club leaned against the frame. The “interrogator” wore the same calm, faint smile as always, quietly watching him.

No questions.

No need for answers.

The angel cultist panted, chest heaving. His body was healed, but some injury far more terrifying than torn flesh had pierced the barrier called reason and carved itself into his soul. Blessed by the messenger, he stared at the smiling “interrogator,” desperate to see through his intent.

The spirit vision granted by the messenger had let him see through many things. In theory, it should have. He had used those eyes to pick apart every interrogator’s trick—every flaw in hypnosis, every seam in illusion arts, even the false memories the Bureau’s dogs fed into his dreams through neural stimulation and injected chemicals. With that blessing, he had withstood everything.

But now, as he stared at the figure on the bed, he realized—

The figure was gone.

All he could see was a black hole. Pure. Empty. Bottomless. A void like death itself.

The torn emptiness floated in his vision. In that extreme nothingness, he thought he sensed a trace of mocking amusement. The void grew larger and larger, drawing closer, until it seemed ready to swallow the entire world.

Even the whispers from the “Lord” felt pushed away—squeezed out and cut off by that emptiness.

The cultist panted harder. A feeling he’d almost forgotten stirred quietly back to life. Questions rose, swelling rapidly in his mind, repeating again and again.

What did it want?

What did this void want to know?

What was its purpose?

And the void answered—answered the questions he asked inside his own head.

It wanted nothing.

It didn’t need any response.

The void drifted closer.

That revived feeling jolted violently.

Ah. So it was fear.

Not fear of physical torment, but fear of witnessing that absolute emptiness—desireless, indifferent, untouched by anything he could offer.

The angel cultist snapped, and the void collapsed back into the interrogator’s shape.

He instinctively drew his neck back—

And in that split-second motion, a warning detonated in his mind.

Bad.

Too late.

A bone-deep chill poured in. He knew that chill. When he’d struggled earlier, that strange doll had bound his body with cold silk threads. Only this time, the cold wasn’t in his limbs. It pierced straight through his consciousness and stabbed into his soul.

The cultist fought to lift his head. In a haze, he saw the floor crawling with “hair.” Black threads spread everywhere like writhing strands, drilling into his body. And the other end of that “hair” was the small doll, like some cursed puppet. She raised both hands, and a faint smile appeared in her crimson eyes.

She opened her mouth and silently shaped the words: You’re scared.

The next second, the world went dark.

The bald cultist collapsed. He lost consciousness like someone abruptly plunged into deep sleep.

Yu Sheng walked over and poked the cultist’s thigh with the spiked club. When there was no reaction, he looked back at Irene, who was carefully controlling the black silk threads. “So you really just… dragged him in like that?”

“Of course.” Little Doll grinned, smug. Then she frowned. “But seriously, it wasn’t easy. I usually don’t have to work this hard to yank someone into a dream by force. This guy’s mind has almost no cracks. His willpower is ridiculous. He only slipped for a second just now, and that’s when I grabbed my chance.”

“After getting beaten that long, anyone would lose focus for a moment,” Yu Sheng muttered, thoughtful. He set the spiked club against the bed. “Still. I’m surprised he could take it.”

He shook his head and looked at Irene. “Forget it. No point overthinking. How’s it going? Has your dream erosion stabilized? Can you pull someone in now?”

“More or less,” Irene said. She kept the silk threads spread over the cultist while nodding at Yu Sheng. “Lie down next to him. I’ll send you in. But once you’re there, be careful. Don’t make too much noise. He doesn’t know he’s dreaming yet. If things get too weird, he’ll wake up.”

“Don’t worry,” Yu Sheng said. “I know what I’m doing.”

He lay down on the narrow bed in the cell and steadied his breathing.

“I’m ready.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Irene lifted her other hand and gently set it on Yu Sheng’s forehead.

Her small palm was soft, warm like a human’s—

Then an icy presence crashed down like a wave.

Black spider silk sank into flesh, dragging Yu Sheng’s consciousness into chaos.

In the hazy unreality, he caught glimpses of chained illusion arts—countless strange, surreal scenes flashing past. Then he saw a phantom web: black silk threads woven into a spiderweb structure. At its center crouched a blurred shadow with crimson eyes, carefully weaving dream after dream.

Yu Sheng’s mind fell toward that center. He saw the crimson-eyed shadow lift an arm and catch two strands of spider silk—one from Yu Sheng’s point of view. The shadow pressed them together, tied them off, then finished with a neat bow.

“…You don’t have to tie it that nicely,” Yu Sheng mumbled, half-asleep.

“A bow looks nice,” the blurred shadow said in Irene’s voice.

The next second, Yu Sheng opened his eyes.

He was walking through a rundown warehouse. He wore unfamiliar clothes, and everything around him was draped in a thin, blurry veil. Footsteps echoed—hollow, slightly distorted. A faint, indistinct hum pressed at his ears, like sound coming from inside his own skull.

After a heartbeat of confusion, Yu Sheng understood.

Right now, he was hiding inside an angel cultist’s memory.