Hearing the playwright's low and magnetic voice, Annan immediately felt a chill and numbness down his spine,
like the juice-filled, dark purple snake fruit.
Or rather…
like the gaze of a snake coiled around the branches of an apple tree.
The playwright might be a young deity,
but the oppressive aura emanating from him was even more intense than that of the older Paper Princess and Stony Father whom Annan had met.
Just in terms of pressure, it was getting close to the level of the Faceless Poet.
What kind of look was it?
—There was no malice or killing intent therein.
It was a calm gaze that reminded one of the ocean at midnight; under the impenetrable darkness, a faint light of hope twinkled.
Compared to such depths of mystery and twilight,
it was the pure, childlike curiosity and pleasure that induced fear.
