Chapter 77: The Fanatic
"And? Is that supposed to be some kind of big deal?"
Lucien wore the most unimpressed expression known to mankind.
It looked less like apathy and more like a deliberate, vicious taunt.
Even the pink-haired fanatic dropped his bashful posture, his mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief. A dark, flush red crept up his neck, his cheeks burning as if he'd just been slapped across the face. He had clearly expected a grand, trembling reaction after dropping the divine revelation of a lifetime.
Instead, he’d received a response so dry it practically choked the air out of the room.
The man stumbled back a half-step, adjusting his collar and coughing awkwardly into his fist to salvage his dignity.
Mo sat glued to his oversized chair, his jaw practically hitting his knees as he stared back and forth between the two.
What do you mean you're this chill about a lunatic who could flatten this city?!
And why was the lunatic blushing like a schoolgirl after declaring himself the vessel of a dark god?
Mo could feel a sharp, throb of pressure behind his eyes again, his condensed soul energy pressing uncomfortably hard against his small, underdeveloped skull. With every passing second in this eight-year-old body, he felt his brain cells dying off. He was genuinely losing his mind.
"It seems... you do not fully grasp my importance," the man said, recovering his composure and puffing his chest out beneath his robes.
Mo desperately wanted to hop off his chair and punch the man straight in the kneecap.
He doesn't grasp it because he doesn't care about you!
Why was this guy so committed to humiliating himself in front of a monster like Lucien? Was he some kind of total sadist?
"I don't care," Lucien said instantly, his tone as flat as a wooden board.
Lucien, that is NOT the move right now! Mo screamed silently, his small fingers digging tight into the velvet armrests of his chair, his weak ankles locking up with tension. They were dealing with an unhinged cult vessel. Who knew when the idiot would snap and blow the roof off?
"...I will show you!" the man declared, his voice suddenly rising into a high, theatrical ring. "Then you will understand my true magnificence!"
He spun on his heel, his dark robes flaring out in a wide, sweeping arc that looked almost elegant, almost peaceful.
Then he closed his eyes.
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A thick, oily black mist poured straight out of his skin, pooling across the floorboards in heavy, rolling waves. Shadows twisted within the dark smoke, coalescing into silent, distorted shapes.
They were sacrifices, resurrected husks, their hollow eyes burning with black fire as they rose from the mist.
Mo's breath caught in his throat. The sheer, suffocating weight of the raw mana flooding the room made his small chest hitch, his unused lungs straining to pull in air.
The guy wasn't bluffing. He really was the vessel of the God of Sacrifice.
How else could someone manifest high-tier necro-spells with zero incantation and zero effort? Even Lucien suffered physical backlash whenever he pushed his Heretic abilities too far. Yet this pink-haired freak was wielding god-tier energy like he was pouring tea.
Lucien didn't draw his steel. He tilted his head, his dark eyes locking onto the swirling shadow-husks with genuine, unblinking fascination.
Seeing that look in Lucien's eyes, the man took a soft step forward, his manic confidence instantly returning.
"If you join me..." the man purred softly, lowering his eyelashes in that sickeningly bashful way again. "I can teach you how to bend it even further."
Mo watched in absolute horror as Lucien went completely still, his gaze fixed on the shadow magic.
No. Don't tell me... Mo's heart hammered frantically against his small ribs. He's actually tempted!
The vessel knew it too. A triumphant, sickly grin spread across his face.
"That's certainly interesting," Lucien murmured, slowly twirling his umbrella between his long fingers. "The structure of your output... it's unusual."
His dark eyes drifted up, locking onto the man's glowing face.
"But why me? Out of all the high-tier mages in the realm, why go out of your way to track me down?"
The man smiled warmly, taking another step closer. "Because even though you turned your back on the heavens... you walk closer to the gods than any living soul."
Lucien actually blinked this time, giving the man a deeply unsettled look.
Closer to the gods? What kind of absolute garbage was this fanatic spewing?
"Right," Lucien said, his voice dropping into that cold, distant tone he used right before killing someone. "Let's assume I am. That still doesn't tell me why you dragged me here."
Meanwhile, inside the damp darkness of the warehouse district...
Nuri, Alina, Turman, and Wan squeezed through a broken window frame, dropping quietly onto the rotting floorboards of the main floor.
The moment their boots touched the ground, they saw the sheer scale of the operation.
It wasn't just crates of apples.
The Liberators were running a mass-hex distribution hub out of the entire building. Everyday household goods, bolted cotton, candles, salt bags, oil lamps, if a common citizen bought it in the central market, it had been tampered with.
Rows of heavy, misshapen clay pots lined the back walls, a thick, greasy black liquid bubbling inside them. The heat radiating off the vats filled the warehouse with an unbearable, copper-and-rot stench.
"This is it..." Nuri gagged behind his charcoal mask, his eyes watering. "This is the smell from the street."
He wanted to turn around, jump back out the window, and sprint straight to the Order barracks, but his feet felt glued to the floorboards.
"It really is awful," Turman muttered, covering his nose with his sleeve as he looked around the shadowy room.
Turman stopped walking, his eyes locking onto a wooden shelf stacked with black wax candles. "Wait... I feel like I've seen these before."
He reached out, his fingers brushing the cold, greasy wax of a unlit taper. Beside him, Wan gave a single, quiet nod, his grey face dark as he stared at the strange runic etchings carved into the base.
"This is bad," Alina spat, her knuckles white as she gripped her spear shaft. She looked around at the towering stacks of corrupted crates, her jaw clenched tight. "We're trapped in the middle of their main depot, we don't know who's guarding the upper floor, and we have zero reinforcements coming."
In a flash of pure frustration, she kicked a nearby wooden cabinet, the old timber splintering with a loud, echoing CRACK that rattled through the empty warehouse.