31
Eventually, I managed to strike a deal with the human and let him go. Specifically, it was compensation, and he had to do something for me. I feel like I've been a victim from beginning to end. Mr. 'Nightmare' slipped into my dreams, and I treated him thoughtfully. I am just here to help my ally descend from God; I don't intend to make a difference. But he took my things. Of course, those things don't matter. What matters is why he couldn't restrain his curiosity and chose to look at the notes while tidying up.
He saw things he shouldn't have, proving that he wants to be punished. In addition to exposing me, Roselle had made a pact with me when he was sober: I would not pass on the contents of the diary, especially the parts dealing with the secret of the starry sky.
I also need to help him keep an eye out for those who can read his diary and who might spread it without knowing its sinister nature, creating panic and confusion. So, unless authorized by Roselle himself, I must protect them.
This is my deal with him.
He hoped that humans and the middle and low-level extraordinary people in this world could live safely without knowing anything. At least the real folks from the old days wouldn't laugh while reading her diary and suddenly lose control, go crazy, die, and explode into pieces of meat.
Of course, I can teach his diary to others to a certain extent, but not for secondary transmission, and I can't teach anyone Chinese. That gray notebook is a hundred years old, and it was the same material I used to teach Richard. Why is it still in my conscious world? Do I care? Or is it the handwriting of "someone" or "something" which is not good and needs to be addressed?
Frankly, I regret my efforts to raise him. My purpose was only for him to gather the remnants of the temperance faction for my use, to divide the anchor of the Chained God, and to oppose the Rose School of Thought under the control of the Mother Tree. I wanted an obedient subordinate, just like their pathway's name: puppets. But he always had his own ideas, such as taking my sect to charity. Through the reverse influence of long-term believers on the gods, I have added a lot of messy anchors that don't know the meaning of worshiping.
Moreover, a charitable foundation had been established nearly 200 years ago, receiving a large grant from Roselle, who was already an Emperor at that time.
Which demon does charity? It's me, that's fine.
32
I remember when Roselle persistently taught me Chinese and was very careful about my accent, which I found tasteless.
"You still want to hear your native language," I said.
"Of course," he replied. "Don't you want that?"
"I think it's okay. The Kingdom of Loen is very similar to the seventeenth century in my homeland, and even the pollution fog that has persisted since the Industrial Revolution has become more and more similar, just like at home. Your alienation is probably due to the fact that the world as a whole is Western, and if this were an ancient Eastern country, you would definitely have a sense of belonging."
Roselle pouted: "What you said makes sense, but your Chinese is too poor. I just want to laugh when I hear it."
"Your spoken English is also terrible. I heard that your country has an English proficiency test. I guess you didn't pass." I retorted, and we both hurt each other. "The writers and inventors whose works you have changed must be lining up to beat you up, all the way from Trier to Backlund."
"Damn, don't talk about that." Roselle hurriedly waved his hand. "Matilda is pregnant, I'm going to have a third child!"
"Congratulations!"
33
But, but—I know someone is influencing me.
If I hadn't been clothed in demonic skin, if I had been the Body, if I hadn't been this doppelganger as weak as my hand, if I had come in my real body, the quill and its current writer would have exploded and died when they wrote the first word about me. But there are no ifs, and I can only bear the burden of humiliation now.
After all, angels of the abyss have never been welcomed. Because I like to run around, do whatever I want, without the reserve of mythical creatures, and always destroy the game between gods. I still walk the earth with a big grin as I did in the Quaternary period, never shying away from human eyes, and never caring that my arrival symbolizes disaster and bloodshed.
Mr. Nightmare also had distorted marks on his body, and he happened to come to my dream and just happened to have my notebook removed. I don't know what the writer is trying to do, what the point is of arranging a Sequence 7 into my hands, but if he thinks that by giving me a blood sacrifice he will take advantage of me, he is as stupid and naive as Roselle, so I warned him.
Now Roselle probably curses me every day in the mausoleum.
Although his inventions were spread all over the world, people used his developed light bulbs and various props, watched his operas and novels, and the nobles and commoners would play his games, those who believed in her were classified as cults. His only anchors were my charity, which had received the grant, and a few high-ranking members of my denomination—they thought I had a good relationship with him, indeed. The children of the charity would thank Roselle the Great at their weekly prayers, reciting her name and me. These tiny, world-wide anchors were her last straw.
The Black Emperor's insignificant, self-deluded conscience saved him.
He's awake, I know. I am glad that he is awake, seeing the once Great Consul, His Majesty the Emperor, who has made a deal with the demon. Listening to the prayers of children and the weak in the lightless mausoleum, and day after day in the gap between sobriety and madness. Thinking over and over again about the sins he has committed and the sea of blood that he has once shed with his own hands.
... How pleasing to the eye.
34
Dunn pinched the bridge of his nose and yawned slightly, feeling a bit unenergetic today.
But this is normal. Yesterday, he was busy investigating witch-related cases with Klein Moretti, who followed him to the morgue to channel Lady Sharon. But Mrs. Sharon's spirit had vanished without a trace, and it was too late. In the afternoon, he was busy writing reports to the church and assisting the police in dealing with the scene of the incident to prevent simulated crimes. Visiting Hood Eugen in the insane asylum in the early hours of the morning, and patrolling Tingen's dreams as usual at night, digesting dream magic potions, the whole day was so full that even sleepless people felt tired.
To refresh himself, Dunn silently remembered the food he had eaten in his dream last night: pan-fried lamb chops with lemon juice, milk tea with plenty of milk, steak with black pepper sauce, fish and chips, expensive Highland black tea, smoked salmon sandwiches, milk sponge cake, biscuits...
Thinking of this, he habitually checked himself and found that although his body was tired, his spirit was actually better than ever! The Nightmare's potion seemed to have completely integrated into his body, and he felt that his mastery of power had reached its peak!
My potion is completely digested! The effort paid off, and Klein's advice worked... A hint of surprise appeared in his deep eyes, and a certain figure flashed in his mind, calming him down. But the Captain of the Nighthawks, who had always been steady, couldn't hide his joy, got up from his chair, and paced back and forth in the office several times.
"Tuk tuk!" There was a knock on the office door, and Kenley poked his head in. "Captain! Old Neil brought Mrs. Celeste's treats with your favorite pie and sorbet; they were made just for you. Come out and eat it! You were late last time!"
Dunn's eyebrows lifted in delight, and although he maintained the captain's reserve and composure, his pace involuntarily quickened.
Kenley happily opened the door to make way and led his captain to the bustling lounge. As he went downstairs, Dunn glanced out the window and saw a gentleman passing by the night watchman's small building. The two looked at each other by chance, and Dunn subconsciously nodded, and the other party kindly tipped his hat.
The figures of Kornley and Dunn quickly disappeared from the window.
Edward loosened the brim of his hat, looked at the small building with the sign "Black Thorn Security Company," and said to himself, "This is it?"
"This was originally the stronghold of the Nighthawks, and the hero who destroyed the God's plan is here?" he said with a little appreciation. "That's right, that's good. When disaster comes, someone has to die and struggle. It's perfect to fall into ruin inch by inch with hope, and I really want to make this city my own more and more."
He listened intently and heard Mr. 'Nightmare' say in a calm voice with a hint of joy, "I've mastered the 'Nightmare' potion, and this month, our Nightwatchman team may submit a second special request." Then there was a cacophony of cheers, heckling, patting on the shoulders, and hugging, a blessing from the lake that seemed to carry something in its mouth, and the repeated mention of a name—"Daly."
Followed by "Madame," a human female, his love?
Thinking back to last night, all he showed was a sense of justice and a remarkable spirit of self-sacrifice. Edward thought with interest, but the voices were so loud
"Alright, Mr. 'Nightmare' can help me monitor the movements of the Nighthawks, and I'll be the first to know if there's any emergency. It's almost done, so why don't we visit that daring human?"
In a house with a red chimney and a garden, if you could look through a notebook that started to add a new sentence: "... Understandably, Dunn saw the Abyss Angel in his dream, which unfortunately upset the other party. As a result, he's been controlled and hinted at quite covertly, which aligns with Ince Zangwill's expectations." The archbishop of the night sneezed unexpectedly and felt a chill.
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[Original author Tianxu Aurora's notes: *Thank you all for your support! Ambition is not always beneficial; it's primarily plot-driven, and success is akin to completing a chapter.
With the aid of a potent anchor and an outer god, Roselle doesn't sleep continuously as before. Instead, he wakes intermittently, but his awakenings are marked by madness. One of his few sober acts was carving a tombstone for Edward Vaughn in the graveyard.
It's September 5th, just four days before the descent of the god.]