Chapter 186 – The Breach

Chapter 186 – The Breach

Yu Sheng struck with great care.

He started by meticulously working over the cultist’s left leg with the mace, then just as meticulously worked over the right. After that came both arms. Apart from taking care to avoid the restraining shackles installed by the Special Operations Bureau, he hammered every section repeatedly until it was thoroughly pulverized and had the consistency of jelly.

The Angel Cult member was initially stunned by the beating, then began screaming and cursing, occasionally emitting sounds no human should be able to produce. His garbled, piercing shrieks were laced with a layered, overlapping noise, as though something else was hidden inside that seemingly human shell—something that tried to struggle free at one point, only to be beaten back down by Yu Sheng’s relentless blows.

After that, the cultist attempted to resist, or at least to squirm away, but every part of his body—including his insides—had been fitted or implanted with the Bureau’s suppression devices. The restraint rings on his joints prevented any significant movement, while the neural suppressors implanted within made it nearly impossible to concentrate enough to cast any spells.

Occasionally the cultist’s struggles would grow violent enough to nearly breach the control of those restraints and suppressors. That was when Eileen would step in—her inky black threads could control even the terrifying Grandmother Wolf and The Hunger, enhanced as it was by the Twilight Angel. Subduing one weakened, shackled human was child’s play by comparison.

After some indeterminate stretch of time, Yu Sheng finished. He wiped the fine beads of sweat from his forehead, carried the Staff of Tetanus over to the bed beside him, and sat down. He nodded at Hu Li. “Heal him.”

“Mm!”

Hu Li responded immediately, stepping forward to the cultist’s side. She raised her hand and traced several arcane, intricate spell-symbols in the air, then held her palm suspended above his head. A faint golden-red glow shimmered in her eyes, and the cultist’s grievous wounds began healing at a speed visible to the naked eye.

Eileen watched from the side with wide eyes, unable to help exclaiming, “Hey, you silly fox, that’s actually pretty impressive… Back at home when you mentioned you could heal, I didn’t believe you. I’ve never seen you use it before.”

“There’s never been a need,” Hu Li glanced up at Yu Sheng, a hint of grievance in her tone. “Eileen doesn’t need healing, and Benefactor is always past the point of healing…”

At the same time, the Angel Cult member on the ground, who had very nearly passed out, finally came to with a groan. This bald man who had previously maintained such a transcendent bearing, his eyes calm as though he’d seen through life and death itself, was now drenched in blood with his clothes in tatters, looking utterly wretched. Yet just as Song Cheng had said, he’d endured all the physical suffering without the slightest intention of begging for mercy. He merely fixed Yu Sheng with a death stare, his gaze carrying traces of fury and contempt.

Yu Sheng seemed entirely unbothered by the cultist’s expression. He simply picked up his club and walked back over, gazing down at the man with a placid face.

“Stupid and vulgar,” the cultist on the ground split his lips in a grin, blood foam slowly seeping from the corners of his mouth. His words even carried a mocking edge. “Do you have any idea what magnitude of suffering we’ve conquered in pursuit of truth? Do you have any idea how much tempering our will can withstand?”

“No idea,” Yu Sheng shook his head. “I’m just doing this for fun.”

The next second, under the cultist’s slightly stunned gaze, Yu Sheng raised the club high once more.

Three times in total. Three full healings.

The soft glow of healing gradually faded, and the unconscious cultist opened his eyes once again.

He saw the mysterious “interrogator” sitting on the bed across from him, that horrifying club leaning against the side. The interrogator wore the same expression as always—calm with a hint of a smile—watching him quietly.

He hadn’t asked a single question, nor did he require any answers.

The cultist gasped violently. Though his flesh had been restored, a wound far more terrible than any physical injury seemed to have already pierced through the barrier called “reason,” etching itself deep into his soul—a soul blessed by the Emissary. He stared fixedly at the smiling interrogator, desperately trying to see through the man’s intentions.

The power of Clairvoyance bestowed by the Emissary allowed him to see through many things—at least in theory. He had used these eyes to see through every previous interrogator’s tricks, every flaw in their hypnosis attempts, and even all the illusions and false memories the Bureau’s lapdogs had manufactured in his dreams through neural stimulation and cerebral injections. He had relied on the power of this blessing to withstand every interrogation to date.

But now, as he stared at the figure sitting on the bed, he suddenly realized… the figure had vanished.

All he could see was a black hole. Pure, empty, fathomlessly deep—a void like death itself.

That torn void of death floated in his field of vision. From within that absolute nothingness, a mocking smile seemed to surface. The void grew larger and larger in his sight, closer and closer, until it seemed to swallow the entire world.

Even the whispers from the “Lord” seemed to be crowded out, cut off by that void.

The cultist gasped even more violently. An emotion he had almost forgotten seemed to be quietly reviving in the depths of his heart. A question surfaced and rapidly amplified within his consciousness, repeating over and over:

What does it want? What does this void want to know? What is its purpose?

And the void answered—answered the question he’d posed in his consciousness.

It wanted nothing. It required no response.

The void drifted upward, drawing closer.

That quietly reviving emotion gave a violent lurch—ah, so it was fear.

The fear wasn’t born from physical torment, but from witnessing that absolute nothingness, that utter absence of desire. The cultist jolted awake with a start and saw the void collapse back into the shape of the interrogator. He instinctively shrank his neck back.

And in that fraction of a second it took to flinch, a sharp sense of alarm surged through the cultist’s mind: Not good!

But it was already too late.

A strange, bone-chilling sensation struck without warning. The icy feeling wasn’t unfamiliar—when he’d tried to struggle earlier, that eerie doll had used cold threads to bind his body. But this time, the chill didn’t come from his limbs. It pierced directly into his consciousness, stabbing into his very soul.

The cultist struggled to raise his head. In a daze, he thought he saw “hair” crawling across the floor—black threads spreading everywhere like wriggling strands of hair, burrowing into his body. And at the other end of these “hairs” was that diminutive figure, looking like some kind of cursed doll. She raised both hands, a flicker of amusement surfacing in her crimson eyes.

She opened her mouth and silently mouthed the words: “You’re afraid.”

The next second, the entire world plunged into darkness.

The bald cultist collapsed to the ground, consciousness ripped away just like that—as if he’d abruptly fallen into a coma.

Yu Sheng walked over and carefully prodded the man’s thigh with the mace, confirming there wasn’t the slightest sign of him waking up before turning to look at Eileen, who was delicately controlling the black threads. “You really just ‘dragged him in’ like that?”

“Obviously. Who do you think you’re dealing with?” A smug grin spread across Little Doll’s face, but it quickly creased into a frown. “Seriously though, that wasn’t easy. Normally, forcing someone into a dream doesn’t take nearly this much effort. This guy’s mind was practically airtight—willpower tough as nails. It was only just now when he suddenly panicked for a split second that I managed to grab the opening.”

“Well, after beating on him for that long, a momentary lapse seems pretty normal, right?” Yu Sheng gazed thoughtfully at the unconscious cultist, murmuring as he casually propped the mace against the bed. “Still, I’m pretty impressed. This guy can really take a beating.”

He shook his head at that, then looked at Eileen. “Forget it, let’s not overthink it. How are things on your end? Has your dream erosion stabilized? Can you pull people in now?”

“More or less,” Eileen replied, carefully controlling the black threads that had spread over the cultist’s body while nodding at Yu Sheng. “Lie down next to him. I’ll send you in. But be careful once you’re inside—don’t cause too big a disturbance. He doesn’t know he’s dreaming yet, and if things feel too off, he’ll snap awake.”

“Relax, I know what I’m doing.”

With that, Yu Sheng lay down on the small cot in the cell and steadied his breathing.

“I’m ready.”

Eileen, perched on the edge of the cot, raised her other hand and gently pressed it against Yu Sheng’s forehead.

Her small hand was soft, carrying a warmth like that of a living body—but the very next second, a bone-chilling cold surged through him.

Black spider-silk threads sank instantly into flesh and blood, dragging Yu Sheng’s consciousness down into chaos.

In the hazy, phantasmal chaos, Yu Sheng glimpsed a chain of visions. After a series of bizarre, kaleidoscopic scenes, he saw a spectral “web”—jet-black threads woven together, forming a spider-web-like structure. At its center, a blurred shadow with crimson eyes crouched, carefully weaving layer upon layer of dreams…

Yu Sheng’s consciousness plummeted toward the center of the web. He watched the crimson-eyed shadow raise an arm and grab two strands of silk—one of which extended from Yu Sheng’s own perspective. The shadow pressed the two strands together, then rapidly bound them tight, finishing it off with a little bow.

“…You really didn’t need to tie it that neatly,” Yu Sheng mumbled groggily.

“A bow looks pretty,” came Eileen’s voice from the blurred shadow.

The next second, Yu Sheng opened his eyes again.

He found himself walking through a decrepit warehouse, dressed in unfamiliar clothes. Everything around him was draped in a layer of hazy gauze.

Footsteps echoed through the warehouse, sounding hollow and slightly distorted.

Vague, indistinct noises hummed in his ears, as if the sounds were being generated directly inside his own head.

After a brief moment of bewilderment, it clicked—

He was now hiding inside one of the Angel Cult member’s memories.

(End of Chapter)