10
With his head bowed and his steps afloat, Admissor walked down the street in old shirt and blue coarse cloth trousers, aiming for the workhouse on the Iron Cross in Tingen. This is a workhouse sponsored by the Ernst Charitable Foundation, a long-established charity headquartered in Intis, which has been established for more than 150 years, and has countless workhouses, welfare homes, and charity schools all over the country, even in the lower streets of a small city like Tingen.
Admissor, who was overly inspired, often fell into a trance and muttered, barely able to work properly to support himself, and struggled to survive by doing odd jobs and receiving money in workhouses.
"Our Mr. 'Monster' is back!"
He walked into the workhouse and handed the list to the officer, who greeted him warmly and led him to the table, where he laid down a vegetable soup with a few pieces of meat the size of a fingernail and two slices of toast and a slice of bad butter. The children in the workhouse, who were learning to sew, had their lunch break and ran over with joy, chirping around Admissor like a flock of swallows.
"Sir! Mr. Monster!" A young boy with a basic literacy textbook huddled in front of him, his eyes revolving over the meat in the vegetable broth and grasping the spoon with what he thought was a very stealthy motion.
A slightly older girl glared at the little boy, and the other party withdrew her hand stupidly, her eyes still dripping on the flesh: "What kind of story are you going to tell us today?"
"Story ...," Admissor muttered, his cloudy eyes narrowed, unable to tell whether he was sleepwalking or awake.
He once told his children about the images he had sensed, and he said that he saw a young man with a strong smell of death, as if he had just crawled out of a grave; He said that he had seen a dark inverted cross appear behind a gentleman with grey eyes, and that the mere glance at it had almost killed him; He also said that he dreamed of a catastrophe in which the whole city was drowned in a sea of blood and everyone died, and he rolled and wailed in pain and wept blood... But the children don't understand, the people in the workhouse don't understand, they don't understand, and even if they do, they can't change the future.
Only the Nighthawks became wary of his hallucinations, and the gentleman seemed to have come down, but the final result is unknown. But regarding his dream that the whole city was dead even the Nighthawks were suspicious. They didn't know what would happen or where to start investigating.
"There's no story." He said, "It's dead, there's no more story..."
Admissor was so sad that he couldn't speak, but the children around him, you look at me, I look at you, did not lose their enthusiasm because of these words, and continued to ask questions with great interest.
11
"Go, go, kids, it's time for a nap, you have other lessons to do in the afternoon!" An old woman in her fifties smiled and drove the children away, "The fabric to be supplied to the Dark Night Welfare Home will be delivered tonight, and the children who can't finish it will have no candy to eat this week!"
The children scattered in a hurry, scrambling to go to bed.
Then the kind old woman, the Director of the Workhouse, breathed a sigh of relief, sat down opposite Admissor with a smile, and asked a slightly pointed: "Are you still dreaming of that, Tingen-full of dead people?"
"..." Admissor chewed the bread slowly and nodded after a long time.
"My Goddess above." The Dean gasped lightly and lit a red moon on his chest, "I hope my lovely children are okay."
"Everybody is going to die." The monster said, with a confused look on his face, "Who stirred up the sea of blood, just one wave will drown this place, human beings are so fragile, what is the meaning of life...?" "
"... Life is a journey of accumulating suffering and happiness, and life is only a journey from birth to death." After a moment of silence, the Dean spoke softly, and but someone said a phrase that did not seem audible "Apocalypse of the Night" , the voice was so small that only Admissor could hear it, and at the end, the voice thought for a moment, and asked carefully, "Your talent is very rare, we need your strength to investigate this matter, do you want to consider assisting us?" "
The words about the journey and the pilgrimage made Admissor's eyes widen slightly, as if he had heard something incredible. He swallowed the soup, the piping heat that slid through his throat sobered him up a little. A strange river swirled around his consciousness, rushing forward. He felt his spirit suddenly rise again, and the gentle and loving dean opposite looked at him worriedly, and he involuntarily muttered:
"... Coming ...."
12
As an outer god, I know that there is a pathetically thick barrier between humans and me, due to the vast difference in the level of life.
I stared at the small city, there were no demigod-level powerhouse to shelter, and there was no seal strong enough, I couldn't think of any reason to fail. As for the scammer who always tries to escape, I also give a certain warning, from the world of dreams, I can't think of a gentler method. But he was even more frightened, almost to the point of madness.
I can't remember the name of every individual human being, just like humans can't accurately distinguish between each ant. Therefore, when I encounter a human that needs to be remembered but is not common, I always choose a unique trait as a code name.
The reason for his fear was that "I will die when the Son of God is born, how can a mere mortal be worthy to be the father of the Son of God?" I think this fear is very meaningless, and taking the initiative to join the cult's ritual without being prepared to die is a bit disrespectful to the evil god. He apparently didn't know that he was one of the vessels of the came, even more hidden than the seed that had already been planted.
My ally made a double insurance for this divine descent plan, and in the process of finalizing the plan with "him", I deeply felt how "generous" the treatment of being blocked by the Seven Gods was, making "him" become an obsessive-compulsive god who cares about every single details. I remember that in the thousands of years that I had been allied with "him", there had been a descent every hundred and ten years, and it had ended in various failures. In contrast, I, the evil god who has been walking on the earth since the beginning of time, I am so blessed that I don't know how to be blessed.
Of course, as a reliable ally, a good and generous "remnant of the old days", it makes sense that I should help "him" to come to earth as soon as possible.
But reality and ideals are often reversed, and in every failed divine descent, there is always the interference of the eldest son who was created when "He" was still the "Ancient Sun God", and the current half-body of the Visionary, Adam, the king of angels. And I can't touch "him", and I don't want to touch "him". My humanity is false, my image is created and stolen. When I eventually meet King of Angels of Visionary who is the best at perceiving people's hearts, I can't guarantee that my facade will not be exposed.
It's not that I can't be killed, but at the moment I'm just a Sequence 2 average passing Angel and switching to my own authority will attract attention.
Therefore, whenever I found him, I immediately retreated away.
"This time... Must...Be sure to ...."
"His" words rang in my ears again. "Okay," I replied to "him", " as long as Adam doesn't interfere this time, I'll definitely try my best to help you."
Passing by the theater, I saw the actors who had changed their costumes in the open space behind me for a simple rehearsal, one dressed as a prisoner who is in rags, with a twinkle of fear and hatred in his eyes, and one dressed as a clerk, proudly saying something courting to a weeping girl. After a brief glance, I realized that this was a rehearsal of the first few scenes of "The Return of the Count", about an innocent sailor who is framed and imprisoned and forced to be separated from his beautiful fiancée for fourteen years.
... Oh. Not a sailor, a genius mechanic.
When Roselle and I got to know each other, this is what I said: "The Count of Monte Cristo is really well written, and it is a bit like your Return of the Count."
At that point, I want to express my gratitude to the wonders of the "Savant" pathway, to be able to write down this novel word for word. Even though I have completely devoured and digested the soul of "Edward Vaughan", the memory of ordinary humans is already weak, and most of the pages I have read have been blurred, and only a few words remain.
But he is also an associate professor at a university, and although his major is not suitable for me to write plays, if I read his memories back and forth hundreds of times, and then combine them with my own fabrications, I can also pull out a few tomes such as ... "Thousand Years of Solitude", "Sleeping Flower Girl", "Becklund Orphan" and so on.
However, it is enough to have Roselle, a transmigrator of the old days. On the bright side, I remember that there are hundreds of light cocoons of all sizes hung in the sefirot of the Celestial Worthy of Heaven and Earth, I don't know what it is for, if they were to be released down to Earth, it is hard to imagine what it will become of this world.
13
I still remember the first time I met Roselle, when he was a brilliant genius under the God of Steam and Machinery. I approached as a transmigrator of the past, and he quickly accepted me as his fellow transmigrator, even though I was not from the same country as him.
This is in line with my judgment of humanity, which is that humans can never get rid of their attachment to where they came from, their homeland. It's hard to understand, it's clear that this is the Earth. When not far from home, longing to play with neighbors; When studying in a different place, they longed to come from the same city; When you're alone in a foreign country, it's exciting to see people in the same country.
And this Roselle is alone in this "world" where no other time-traveler exists, and only me and he are from the same era.
Roselle asks: "Old ... No, international friend, which sequence are you now?"
I answered: "Sequence 2 of the Devil's path, angel."
Roselle was shocked: "Oh, Super Awesome, Like Chainsaw Man's?"
I was puzzled, but I didn't say it, leaving him alone there awkward, embarrassed, and then falling into the loneliness of no one responding.
[Original Author Tianxu Aurora's note: * Freelance manga artist Fujimoto has an angelic demon in the manga Chainsaw Man.]