Necromancer: I Am A Disaster
Chaotic Sword God
Apocalypse Gacha
Martial Cultivator
Aspiring to the Immortal Path
Snow-Kissed Rose (GL)
Horror Game Designer
Nightmare Assault
I’ll Take That Opportunity
The Hero Turned Into A Potato And The World Fell To Ruin
The Defeated Saintess Is On A Journey To Tame The Evil God
Conquering OtherWorld Starts With a Game
Horror Game Designer
Chapter 527: Wang Pingan
Apocalypse Gacha
Chapter 1507- Person to tell Cloud Peak's king to scram
Apocalypse Gacha
Chapter 1506- Different price for different people
I’ll Take That Opportunity
Chapter 34 – Deviant Devil Invasion
Snow-Kissed Rose (GL)
Chapter 89.2
Martial Cultivator
Chapter 760.3: Why Are Women All Like This - Part 3
Chaotic Sword God
Chapter 3894: Lan Caidie
Horror Game Designer
Chapter 526: Whose Child are You?
Apocalypse Gacha
Chapter 1505.5- Three piece purple
Necromancer: I Am A Disaster
Chapter 472 – There Won’t Be Another Chance
Aspiring to the Immortal Path
Chapter 1103: Cannon Fodder
Apocalypse Gacha
Chapter 1505- Three piece purple
I’ll Take That Opportunity
Chapter 33 - The Treasure Hunt Concludes
Martial Cultivator
Chapter 760.2: Why Are Women All Like This - Part 2
Nightmare Assault
Chapter 402: Painting and Illustration
Horror Game Designer
Chapter 525: Missing Door
Apocalypse Gacha
Chapter 1504- Frenzied collection
Snow-Kissed Rose (GL)
Chapter 89.1
Hal, who never admitted defeat, saw an absurd scene through his shadow this time—
In that remote forest, which had long been buried in his mind and forgotten, Jim… crawled out of the body bag!
Jim, who had risen from hell to seek revenge, had Hal's uncle, Harlington Maxwell, growing out of his chest!
And on Uncle Harlington's body sprouted Olive's top half!
"Aaaaaahhhhh!!"
Hal let out a gut-wrenching scream, his body convulsing violently once again. He scratched the armrest so hard it drew blood, though he wasn't aware of it.
Even in such a miserable state, Hal didn't pull his gaze away. He stared in fear at his shadow, watching the scene that was somewhat fuzzy yet could awaken the deepest memories of his soul. The world before his eyes gradually seemed to be shrouded in blood…
Jim was his good friend.
The Maxwell family had once offended a count belonging to the Kenyan Empire's industrial nouveau riche. In the span of six months, both Hal's father and uncle went bankrupt, and he went from being the spoiled young master of the family to a street urchin who wasn't even allowed to enter the school gates.
During his time of despair and helplessness, Jim, a boy who had grown up on the streets, had pulled him up.
Jim brought Hal to join the local street gang, where they received protection while taking on odd jobs to earn some money.
Having grown up on the streets himself, Jim taught Hal the rules of street survival—who not to mess with, where to get a free lunch, which restaurant discarded expired food that was still edible, and more…
One day, in a local bar where street kids frequented, Jim was killed.
The killer was the leader of their street gang, and the reason for killing Jim was that Jim had wanted to bring along Hal and the other youngsters, who hadn't yet become deeply involved in criminal activities, to work at the factory with him.
That was a large local factory, with a strong workers' union and excellent pay. It was always a cutthroat competition whenever the factory recruited workers. Jim had managed to secure this opportunity by sucking up to a union manager.
The gang leader knew Jim was like a brother to Hal and forced him to make a choice. Either live as an accomplice in Jim's murder or be buried alongside Jim, the audacious kid who dared to leave the organization.
Hal had no choice. He buried his conscience, together with his beloved friend Jim, in this remote forest.
Hal let out a miserable wail while sobbing as he watched Jim transform into a monstrous entity. It was as if his very soul was being ripped apart by invisible hands.
Hal had reckoned he had long forgotten the agony of his soul and heart being torn apart. But, in truth, that pain had always been hidden deep within his soul, and he had only pretended not to see it.
Something slid down his cheek, dripping onto his knee.
When Hal was 20 years old, Uncle Harlington, who had taken him in, had finally saved up a small fortune. Uncle Harlington knew that they would all be in trouble if Hal dared leave the gang. Thus, he secretly sold the entire family's possessions, bought train tickets, and fled south with his family and Hal one night.
At first, they lived quite well in a southern city of the Kenyan Empire. Hal and his uncle ran a small business together, and Hal's younger cousin found a technical school to attend.
But, before long, the young, hot-tempered, and belligerent Hal found trouble…
He was strong, fit, and could fight, so he was fine. However, Uncle Harlington was implicated and was struck by a pole during a beating and eventually died.
Hal didn't dare face his aunt and cousin and thus ran away.
Hal slid off the chair onto the floor.
He couldn't scream anymore, and no sound came out even though his mouth was half-open.
His mind, body, and soul had been ripped into countless pieces.
Olive, the warm and lively southern woman.
She wasn't from the Kenyan Empire but had come to the Kenyan Empire with her family to escape war in her homeland.
The northern part of the Kenyan Empire was home to industry and trade, while the south was mainly filled with plantations, estates, and scattered handcraft businesses.
Olive, a foreigner, couldn't find good work in the southern city. After being dismissed as a maid by a merchant, she sold flowers, fruit juice, and eventually ended up as a streetwalker.
The burdens of life didn't break Olive. In their old apartment building, where many people lived together, Hal could always hear her laughter through the thin wooden walls.
When Hal had just joined the local gang, he fell for the cheerful Olive, but he was too unsettled to express his feelings.
One night, as Hal and his comrades sneaked into a grocery store to steal, he saw Olive being taken into an underground inn by two drunken men from across the street.
As the lookout that night, Hal could only silently watch this scene.
After that, he never heard that southern woman's laughter ever again.
It was a long time before he heard from local gang members that one of the two men who had bought Olive that night was a notorious slave trader.
Hal didn't have a chance to express his affection for Olive. In his memory, his interactions with Olive were limited to short greetings in the hallway like, "Morning, heading out?"
He had personally witnessed the woman he admired slide into hell that night. And he hadn't done anything.
These memories, which he thought were long forgotten, surged through his mind.
Even when the monstrous amalgamation of Jim, Uncle Harlington, and Olive killed all the undead and the vision disappeared and he couldn't see anything anymore, Hal refused to stop.
He curled up tightly, clutching his chest.
It hurt so much…
Someone's hands went under his armpits and lifted Hal back onto the chair.
Hal wearily raised his eyelids and realized… It was Rex.
There wasn't any sympathy in Rex's detestable face, and this made Hal feel slightly better.
Tuttle hadn't helped him because he was currently slumped in the high-backed chair next to Hal, head tilted back and hands covering his face.
Hal glanced at Tuttle's shadow and realized that it was fainter too.
Among the three of them, only Rex's hadn't changed.
Hal wanted to say something but, in the end, said nothing. He shut his eyes and let himself slump.
…Is this my fear? So what I'm afraid of are the mistakes I have made in the past, huh. I've never conquered myself—I've just been running away, Hal silently contemplated and felt somewhat disheartened.
Recalling his past left him even more mentally exhausted than the tiring times when he struggled to maintain their livelihood in the Sorensen Mountains.
With a sidelong glance, he noticed Rex sitting in a silent daze. Hal, who rarely initiated a conversation with this young man he usually avoided, decided to ask, "Charlie, what did it feel like when you crossed the 'threshold'?"
Rex seemed surprised that Hal was willing to talk to him after revealing such a miserable side of himself. He pondered for a moment and replied earnestly, "Lowly, insignificant, superfluous… The force that flowed into me when I advanced made me question if my living truly held any value."
Hal's lips twitched… This reply didn't offer him any insight.
"What about your fear, your 'warped mental domain' that Yang manifested… What is it?" Hal asked again.
"I don't know," Rex said with a bitter smile. "It's difficult for people to objectively understand themselves, and I'm no exception. I'm waiting for… the undead to enter my 'mental domain.'"
Hal gazed at Rex for a few seconds and suddenly realized that this fellow wasn't so annoying after all.
———
Weisshem.
Yang Qiu briefly checked on the contributors for the Exile Town dungeon instances and, seeing no issue, continued with his daily meditation.
In the past couple of days, he had spent more time in OtherWorld than on Earth and, consequently, mediated more frequently.
And the frequency of his meditation naturally drew the attention of Inspector Lowell.
Lowell, who was lying down, immediately opened his eyes when he sensed the active magic.
While ascetics didn't use magic, their powerful mental strength also made them extremely sensitive to magic. Before the more extensive commercial activities and the increased flow of trade brought about by the Age of Discovery, the relationship between the mage towers and the churches wasn't as peaceful as it was now, and spellcasters and ascetics were often at odds for the sake of acquiring materials for spells.
Lowell quietly got up from his bed, walked to the door, and opened it.
In the hall, Yang was once again meditating, and abundant, active magic filled the entire room.
Lowell frowned, his expression growing more solemn.
If he remembered correctly, Yang had meditated just before dinner.
This universal technique—focusing the mind to open up one's perception and quickly absorb magic factors—was also known to the various faiths. Just that ascetics didn't use it for absorbing magic; they employed it for prayer and receiving divine blessings.
But regardless of whether it was absorbing magic or accepting divine faith, both couldn't be done with frequency and intensity. There was a risk for spellcasters to have their minds corrupted by magic, while ascetics might lose themselves to the influence of divine power.
Too much of a good thing could lead to trouble; the sun might be pleasant, but too much exposure could be problematic.
Based on his observations of Yang during this period, Lowell didn't believe Yang was a crazed person blindly and recklessly seeking power.
If this isn't taking an immense risk… Does that mean he has absolute confidence he won't lose himself to magic or power unless?
The puzzled Inspector Lowell was now fully awake. He stepped into the hall and took a seat on the couch across from Yang.
About half an hour later, Yang Qiu concluded his mediation and gave Inspector Lowell a nod.
Inspector Lowell nodded back to return the greeting. Sensing the overflowing and potent magic in Yang's aura, he asked with furrowed brows, "Forgive my bold assumption, Yang, but are you preparing to advance to Archmage?"
"Yes," Yang Qiu admitted. "Our undead friends are already outcasts in this world, and now Taranthan has many more people in need of shelter. As their lord, I have to make as much self-progress as possible to be prepared for any situation."
Lowell's frown deepened, and he expressed his disagreement, "Forgive me for being frank, but your experiences over these past decades don't seem like the sort of personal growth needed for advancement."
A professional-level advancement would require at least several years of preparation. Something like advancing to an Archmage would at least require decades; a couple of years ago, Lowell had heard rumors of the Radiant Sun Church suffering significant casualties in an attempt to trap the Nightmare Butcher somewhere and thus didn't view Yang's hastiness favorably.
Yang Qiu smiled and posted a question, "Revered Inspector, what do you reckon is the essence of power?"
"Force. Violence," Inspector Lowell asserted without hesitation.
A regular acolyte might give a lengthy and idealistic explanation, but at Inspector Lowell's, such embellishments were unnecessary.
"Yes, the essence of power is force and violence." Yang Qiu maintained his calm smile. "But for me, power is a baseline for self-defense, maintaining basic justice and order, rather than a tool for aggression against others.
"I've never abused my power for personal gain, so I don't worry about losing myself to power."
Special thanks to Tetra editing
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I'm Really Not The Demon God's Lackey
The Hero Turned Into A Potato And The World Fell To Ruin