Chapter 553

This chapter's byte count: The reconstruction of Beckland has progressed much faster than expected; to this day, not a trace remains of the bombing.

"Believe in the Holy Light."

"For justice!"

"May the Holy Light protect you."

The Silver Hand is not only highly active in the Southern Continent; under the tacit approval of the Eternal Sun Church, it has even spread here.

Although spreading the Holy Light appears suspiciously like poaching followers from the Eternal Sun, the odd part is that the Silver Hand accepts all—allowing you to worship other sects simultaneously, even permitting former followers of dark gods to embrace the Holy Light.

When questioned, they always give the same reply: 【We do not produce the Holy Light; we are merely its couriers.】

Perhaps out of goodwill toward the "God of Light," the gods have maintained a tolerant attitude toward the ancient god of the Second Era, once the Demon Lord, now the Light Bearer, "Uther."

Wait.

Kleine froze mid-motion as he reached for coins to buy fried herring and potato sticks from Priz Harbor, suddenly remembering a question: back then, Su Lin was merely an ordinary God of Light, a three-minute ephemeral outer god—why.

Why did that guy turn a Demon Lord into a Holy Light Lord?

Kleine remembered that the portion of the Primordial Substance corresponding to the Desire Mother Tree, the Shadow World, had also been transformed by Su Lin into a "Holy Light World."

And at that time, Su Lin was merely a God of Light with cheat abilities.

"Mr.?" someone prompted.

Kleine handed over the menu:

"Sorry—give me another order: ginger beer with mini pancakes and oyster soup, plus a cup of sweet iced tea, two scoops of strawberry ice cream—the ice cream to be packed later."

The owner nodded: "That's nine Suler and fifteen pence."

The pace of inflation is astonishing; even at a mobile stall of the Sazolun Restaurant, this breakfast seems expensive—no one knows if Beckland's wages have risen.

"Next time, I'll use a historical projection instead—worst case, I'll just make the deception real." Kleine toyed with a gold coin in his hand, continuing to ponder the earlier topic.

So perhaps the problem isn't me—it's the God of Light who displayed the "Inverted" talent even before becoming God.

Am I just taking the blame for Su Lin?

Very likely.

A public carriage rolled over cobblestones, its wheels jolting against uneven patches, sounding especially dull in the morning.

Yet Kleine's mood had improved considerably—at least this proved it wasn't entirely his fault.

Walking amid the bustle, while the veil of night had not yet lifted, he sat near an alley, pulled out a sheet of paper, and used the gold coin as a paperweight.

The greasy, rancid odor of reheated fried fish mingled with the aroma of simmering lamb meat from the neighboring stall.

"One portion of tender pea-stewed lamb," Kleine said.

The stall owner nodded.

Having completed the setup of "Taste of Beckland," Kleine finally set aside his thoughts, pulled out a fountain pen, stared for a moment at the growing crowd on the street, and began writing:

"Dear Mr. Azk:

It's been a long time since I last wrote to you; though here it's only been a few months, to me it feels like years.

I'm eager to share with you stories beyond this world—like my recent experiences and a group of multiverse—(struck out)"

Kleine, who had recently been agonizing over protecting Earth, suddenly recalled the destroyed universes and fell silent, the ink in his pen halting.

Only when the stall owner laid out a lavish breakfast, and the civil servant Benson sprinted past him chasing the departing public carriage, did he snap back and continue writing:

"Forgive me—due to time constraints, I am about to ascend to the Gray Mist to perform a promotion ritual.

I forgot to mention: I am now the Fool of Sequence Zero.

The pressure hasn't lessened; if anything, it's grown heavier. I suppose humans are inherently insatiable beings, yet life keeps pushing us forward.

That's good—it proves I still possess rich humanity.

Previously, I mentioned owing a world's future; don't worry, the creditor is actually a good person, even if he spends all day trying to sew my mouth shut and turn me into a witch.

After becoming a True God, external threats to the world vanished; logically, I could rest for years. But changes keep arriving—I must become an Ancient One, even something beyond the Ancient Ones."

Only then can I survive among my groupmates—or escape when the Ascension Path "Azathoth" is ever exposed.

Kleine muttered inwardly, sighing involuntarily.

He glanced at the cooling pea-stewed lamb, then added one final line.

"Because only then can I help him someday in the future."

Though the Tarot Club has no mandate to aid each other, only to exchange requests, Kleine would never treat Su Lin's actions as entitlement.

Even if the other doesn't care about these favors,

for the sake of this friendship, he must repay every debt and return every kindness.

Previously, daring to ascend to an Ancient One meant he couldn't trust Yuanshi Tianzun or Amon; now, the reason is different.

Finally, Kleine drew a complex symbol blending "Observation" and "Secrecy" on the paper, then placed it along with a Tiancheng Token inside the envelope.

He had placed Adros in Tiancheng as an automatic divination machine; its income remains stable.

After Mr. Azk awakens and travels to Tiancheng, he can contact me through Adros—or use Adros's income as funds.

Of course, assuming I fail the ascension.

After finishing breakfast, Kleine went to an empty alley corner and blew the copper whistle left by Mr. Azk.

The Bone Messenger appeared, every bone trembling violently; it knelt on the ground, holding both hands to receive the letter.

After handing the letter to the Bone Messenger, Kleine made additional arrangements, then went to Will's residence.

"A-again? More blood?! Waaahhh—!"

The moment he saw Kleine, the Sequence One Infant Angel instantly associated him with someone—and burst into tears.

Su the bastard, you're utterly wicked.

Kleine kept a calm expression, yet once again lowered his estimation of that guy in his mind.

Recalling how the other always set up strange fate rituals—even when playing card-drawing games, he insisted on blood arrays—Kleine immediately recalled a long-ago question.

Where did he get so much Blood of the Serpents of Fate?

"Can we skip pricking my finger this time! I don't want ice cream anymore! Wahhhhh—!"

The answer is right before us.

The crying infant didn't curse, but every movement was a scream of protest.

That guy can manipulate his own fortune already; giving himself a "Luck: ∞" panel at the Source is no big deal—why fixate on Will?

"Could this also work on Su Lin's station?"

Kleine thought for a moment and soothed, "I just came to bring you ice cream."

"Really?" Will immediately stopped crying.

Kleine nodded and pulled out a gold coin stained with the aura of the Source Vault and a Tiancheng token, handing them to the boy.

"When do I get my Probability Dice back?" Will asked timidly.

At the same time, he stared curiously at the items in his hand.

"I'll try to remind him," Kleine said. "But before that, I need a small favor—something you offer willingly."

He took Will's chubby little hand.

"What?"

Will Onsedin's tears flowed again—because at that moment, he saw Kleine pull out a test tube and a silver needle.

"This is the spot he poked before?"

Above the gray mist of the Spirit Realm, the vanished Source Vault reappeared, signaling the return of its master—the one who had long transcended and mastered the course of fate.

The Prime Deities cast their gaze down from the Starry Realm; they made no move, merely watching the Spirit Realm from within their own divine realms.

On either side of the weathered table, "Justice" Audrey and the other Tarot Club members appeared one after another, followed by Dunn, whose hairline had receded and eyes were deep and dark; Melissa, repairing a mechanical pocket watch; Mrs. Dally, wearing blue eyeshadow; and a woman with snow-white hair, muttering about parents arranging matches and a childhood crush.

Kleine had originally intended to add the others from the chat group to make it livelier, but then remembered that certain boundaryless bastards would absolutely sense it and jump out to mock him for playing trauma literature like Lu Mingfei.

He decided against it.

After all, he merely wanted to follow a familiar script, trying to strengthen fate's convergence.

"That's enough."

Kleine walked through the candlelight, staff in hand, heading deeper into the mist-shrouded Source Vault, where former enemies gradually appeared.

Ins Zangweil—Boom!

Kleine holstered his smoking revolver.

General of Hell, Ludwig, a useful puppet.

Rosago, the Rage of the Mob—residual influence still lingers.

Finally, there was the Trickster God, Amon, wearing a pointed soft hat and a monocle, draped in a mage's robe.

He adjusted the monocle on his right eye socket, baring his white teeth, and chuckled:

"I thought you planned to rely on the God of Light forever—if so, even I could do nothing but flee."

"After all, not everyone has your luck finding such a considerate supporter—could it be that your form after becoming a witch suits his taste?"

"Strange—you don't seem surprised by my appearance."

Amon's smile carried a hint of madness.

It might sound absurd, but Kleine even felt this original body was less insane than the avatar "A Meng" in Tiancheng, because that avatar was developing toward true madness.

"You dare not let your original body enter Beckland with all the Prime Deities watching—and no deity, regardless of stance, dares risk offending the God of Light by taking sides."

Kleine walked to the high-backed chair belonging to the Fool, sat down slowly, leaned back against the chair, and stared into the other's eyes, speaking calmly:

"So no matter what, you and I have only one place where we can decide, undisturbed by the outside world, who becomes the new Lord of Secrecy."

"Speaking of luck and supporters, you, the Angel-King born with singularity, the second son of the Ancient Sun God—your form after becoming a witch was quite alluring."

"But now, Adam, half an Elder, cannot help you, and no other deity can help me."

"The Source Vault—here is where fate begins, and where fate ends."

Upon hearing this, Amon's lips curved; he pulled out a chair and sat down.

"This isn't something you'd normally think of—add to that your earlier moves to seize the initiative in the Land of the Forsaken Gods, and the God of Light and the Earth God from outside this timeline..."

"As I suspected, you must have learned the future through some high-level method."

"This is fascinating—tell me, in the original fate, did I lose?"

He casually glanced around, pinched his monocle, and under Kleine's expressionless gaze, his eyes darkened with shadow.

"It seems I was right."

Unexpected, yet logical.

Amon was not utterly mad, and he was clever—but he could not comprehend humanity.

Moreover, Adam loomed behind him; from the traces left by Kleine and the others, it was not hard to deduce part of the truth.

"My avatar told me there are things outside the Source Vault more valuable—perhaps I should ring the bell for Mister Fool now, to show my loyalty."

Amon's tone dripped with mockery; his smile widened grotesquely: "What do you think?"

"I don't mind," Kleine said, removing his top hat and placing it on the manifested stone table. "But you won't voluntarily give up the Source Vault."

"Correct," Amon's smile stiffened slightly.

Suddenly, from beneath his classical black robe, one after another slimy, sinister tentacle shot out.

The only way to seize the Source Vault: two True Gods of the same Path battle for control over it!

Logically, Kleine, who stabilized his spirit and bore the identity of "Master of the Source Vault," should hold absolute advantage—after all, the opponent was merely a "half-mad" Amon.

Kleine watched his heavy right hand rise, plucking a monocle carved from crystal from the void, and involuntarily placing it over his right eye.

"You're insane," Kleine suddenly frowned.

No answer. Amon wore that stiff smile; only deep within his eyes remained a flicker of mockery.

Since entering the Source Fortress, deception had already begun; Amon, who had never truly been mad and dared not let the Yuanshi Tianzun's consciousness revive, chose to release himself.

This shattered the predetermined fate.

As Miss Kelaien's increasingly dark eyes flickered, his body began to surface with a semi-transparent, deep-colored cloak, and more and more slimy tentacles emerged from beneath it.

For a moment, the sky of the Source Fortress—where gray mist flowed like water and the crimson stars shimmered—was filled with countless tentacles, completely covering the entire space.

The monocle paused about thirty centimeters from the right eye socket, but after a brief hesitation, the right hand slowly resumed its previous motion.

Does this prove Amon is even more insane than Miss Kelaien currently is?!

He actually dared to abandon the possibility of escaping the Source Fortress and allow the Yuanshi Tianzun to revive within him!

The remaining half of his reason told Miss Kelaien this was impossible, but the real world and its people are not like text—unchanging and fixed.

What gave Amon the courage to make such a desperate, irreversible decision?

There was no energy or time to analyze; this battle had entered the stage of playing the "trump card" without even beginning its maneuvering.

A similar manic smile began to appear on Miss Kelaien's face: "In the end, it still comes down to this."

Fifty percent, sixty percent, seventy-five percent.

Amon tilted his head; Miss Kelaien's hand movements finally ceased entirely, and the Source Fortress shook violently—the awakening of two "Secret Lords" had created contradiction within it.

Suddenly, Miss Kelaien opened his five fingers and clenched them tightly; as his cane struck the ground, the Godrealm of the Fool, the Realm of Secrecy, manifested.

Symbols representing parasitism, time, and fate surged from Amon's body, merging into a single chaotic mass.

The corridor within the Gothic castle was unnervingly dark and gloomy; endless corridors revealed layer upon layer of "doors" opening, the authority of Deception and the authority of Error each claiming half, standing in equal opposition.

If no unforeseen event occurred, this struggle would ultimately end with both true gods reduced to mere instinct, failing, and the Yuanshi Tianzun awakening.

The Wishful Lamp, which sealed the "Genie," now grew frantic; a faint golden, blurred figure took shape, gazing at the two lunatics, and immediately controlled the sealed artifact "Trensostr's Brass Book," upon which new text appeared:

"Madness is forbidden here!"

"Loss of control is forbidden here!"

"Loss of self is forbidden here!"

All he could do was this; finally, he abruptly retracted into the golden lamp shaped like a kettle, unsure whether he was fleeing from these two lunatics or another madman about to awaken.

Perhaps, all along this Path are lunatics.: qiushu