Chapter 186

Chapter 186: Loophole

Yu Sheng fought with care.

He first used the Spiked Mace to work over the cultist’s left leg, then did the same to the right. After that he went at both arms. He was careful to avoid the Suppression Shackles installed by the Special Affairs Bureau, but he struck every other part over and over until the flesh turned soft and springy.

At first the Angel Cultist was dazed. Then he began to scream and curse. Sometimes he made sounds no human should be able to make, sharp and garbled, with layers of noise inside. It was like something else was hiding under that human shell, trying to claw its way out, only to be hammered back by Yu Sheng again and again.

After a while, the cultist tried to fight back or at least squirm away. But his whole body, even inside, had devices installed or implanted by the Special Affairs Bureau. The shackles at his joints kept him from any big moves. The Neural Suppressor in his body made it hard to focus enough to cast anything.

Sometimes his struggling grew too wild and almost broke past the restraints and suppressors. When that happened, Irene stepped in. Her black threads could control the scary “Wolf Granny” and the “Hunger” power that had been strengthened by the Dark Angels, so handling one weak, bound human was easy.

No one knew how long it took. Yu Sheng finally finished. He wiped the fine sweat from his brow, picked up the Tetanus Staff, sat on the bed nearby, and nodded to Foxy: “Heal him.”

“Mm!”

Foxy answered right away. She stepped to the Angel Cultist, traced a few complex sigils in the air, then held her hand above his head. A faint gold-red glow rose in her eyes, and the cultist’s brutal wounds began to close at a speed you could see.

Watching from the side, Irene widened her eyes and couldn’t help praising: “Hey, Silly Fox, this trick is pretty strong. Back home you said you could heal and I didn’t believe you. You never use it.”

“I don’t usually need to,” Foxy lifted her head to glance at Yu Sheng, and her voice carried a hint of complaint, “Irene doesn’t need healing, and our benefactor never had the chance.”

At the same time, the Angel Cultist on the ground, who had almost blacked out, slowly came to. Earlier he had posed as if above it all, bald head held high, eyes calm like he saw through life and death. Now he was covered in blood with torn clothes, looking as miserable as a man could be. Even so, he was exactly as Song Cheng had said: he endured all the pain of the flesh. Even now he didn’t beg. He only stared at Yu Sheng, his eyes holding anger and disdain.

Yu Sheng seemed not to care about the look. He took the club and walked over again, face calm as he stared down.

“Stupid and vulgar,” said the cultist on the floor. He bared his teeth, blood foaming at the corner of his mouth. His tone even held a touch of mockery: “Do you know what suffering we overcame to follow the truth? Do you know how much grinding our will can take?”

“I don’t,” Yu Sheng shook his head, “I’m just doing this for fun.”

In the next second, while the cultist blinked in brief shock, Yu Sheng raised the club high again.

He did this three times. Foxy healed him three times.

When the warm glow of healing finally faded, the Angel Cultist opened his eyes once more.

He saw the mysterious “Interrogator” sitting on the bed across from him, the terrible club leaning on the frame. The “Interrogator” wore the same calm, faintly smiling face as always, quietly watching.

He asked nothing. He needed no answer.

The Angel Cultist panted hard. Though his body had mended, a wound more terrible than torn flesh seemed to have passed through the shield called reason and etched itself deep into the soul that bore the messenger’s Blessing. He stared at the smiling “Interrogator,” trying with all his might to see the man’s intent.

The Spirit Vision given by the messenger should have let him see through many things. He had used these eyes to pierce every trick of the interrogators before. He had spotted every hole in each hypnosis. He had seen through every Illusion Arts scene and false memory that the Special Affairs Bureau’s dogs built in his dreams with nerve shocks and brain shots. With this Blessing he had resisted every interrogation so far.

But right now, when he stared at the figure on the bed, he suddenly saw… nothing.

He saw a black hole, pure, empty, deep without end, an emptiness like death.

That torn Death Void floated in his sight. In the extreme nothingness a mocking smile seemed to appear. The hollow grew larger and nearer, until it took up the whole world.

Even the whisper from the “Lord” seemed squeezed out and cut off by that hole.

The Angel Cultist panted harder. A feeling he had almost forgotten quietly woke in his heart. A question rose and swelled in his mind, repeating again and again: [What does he want? What does this empty thing want to know? What goal does he have?]

The hollow answered. It answered the questions he asked in his own mind:

It wanted nothing. It needed no response.

The hollow drifted closer.

That newly awakened feeling jumped hard. Ah. It was fear.

It was not fear of pain in the flesh, but fear of seeing extreme emptiness and lack of desire. The Angel Cultist jolted awake and saw the hollow fall back into the Interrogator’s face. He shrank his neck without thinking.

In less than a second, a warning flared inside him: [Not good!]

Too late.

A strange coldness rushed in. He knew that cold from before. When he tried to struggle, that eerie Doll had used cold threads to bind his body. But this time the chill did not start on the skin. It stabbed straight through his mind and into his soul.

He forced his head up. In a blur, he seemed to see “hair” crawling over the floor. Black fine lines wriggled like living strands and spread everywhere, drilling into his body. The other ends of those “hairs” led back to a small Doll that looked like a curse-made puppet. She raised both hands, and a thin smile flickered in her scarlet eyes.

She opened her mouth and shaped the silent words: “You are afraid.”

The next second, the world went dark.

The bald cultist fell over, suddenly losing consciousness, like he had dropped into sleep without warning.

Yu Sheng walked over and carefully poked the man’s thigh with the Spiked Mace. After he confirmed the man showed no sign of waking, he glanced back at Irene, who was carefully working the Black Threads: “You really just dragged him in like that?”

“Of course. Look who you are talking to,” the small Doll smiled with pride, then soon frowned, “But honestly, it wasn’t easy. When I force people into dreams, it’s never this hard. This guy’s mind has almost no gaps, and his will is tough. He only slipped just now, I don’t know why, and that’s when I grabbed him.”

“After getting beaten for so long, slipping for a moment is normal,” Yu Sheng looked down at the unconscious cultist, set the Spiked Mace by the bed, and muttered, “[Still, I’m surprised. This guy can really endure.]”

He shook his head and looked at Irene: “Forget it. Don’t overthink. How is it? Has your dream corrosion stabilized? Can you pull me in?”

“Almost,” Irene kept a careful hold on the Black Threads spread over the cultist and nodded to Yu Sheng, “Lie down next to me. I’ll send you in. But be careful once you get there. Don’t make a big scene. He doesn’t know he’s dreaming yet. If the feeling is off, he’ll wake.”

“Relax, I know what I’m doing.”

Yu Sheng lay down on the small bed in the cell and steadied his breathing.

“I’m ready.”

Sitting at the edge, Irene lifted her other hand and gently touched his forehead.

Her little hand was soft and warm like a person’s. The next second, a sudden cold breath struck.

Black Spider Silk slipped into his flesh in an instant and pulled Yu Sheng’s mind down into the fog.

In that hazy fog, Yu Sheng glimpsed a stream of Illusion Arts, many strange, colorful scenes. Then he saw a “net,” a web of black lines crossing and crossing, shaping a Spiderweb. A blurred shadow with scarlet eyes crouched at the web’s center, weaving dream after dream with care.

Yu Sheng’s mind fell toward the Spiderweb’s heart. He watched the scarlet-eyed shadow lift an arm and grab two strands of Spider Silk. One strand extended from Yu Sheng’s own view. The shadow pressed the two strands together, tied them fast, and even made a bow.

“…No need to tie it that neatly,” Yu Sheng mumbled.

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

The next second, Yu Sheng opened his eyes again.

He was walking through a run-down warehouse, wearing clothes he did not know. A thin gauze of blur hung over everything.

Footsteps echoed in the empty space, hollow and a bit distorted.

Faint noise buzzed in his ears, like the sound came from inside his head.

After a moment of surprise, Yu Sheng understood at once: he was hiding inside one of the Angel Cultist’s memories.