Eldritch Horror Theatre

Whether that unnameable "it" actually existed was indeed an interesting question.

After all, theoretically speaking, the experiences along the way in Cold Mountain Town were more than enough for the townspeople to invent such a threat out of thin air.

Moreover, he had roamed the night so many times without catching a single glimpse of it. Not to mention, during his first time in the Healing Dreamscape, Dorian's methods had reeked of manipulation.

He had basically tried every trick in the book to make the outsider—the core subject of the dream—believe that "it" existed, thereby willing it into reality.

This unquestionable act of deception made the possibility of "it" genuinely existing even less likely.

It was just that Fu Qian hadn't humored him at the time, refusing to play along.

As it turned out, progress required a little pressure.

Since the manipulation had failed last time, Dorian had clearly given up hope on that method.

But under the threat Fu Qian posed, he also knew deep down that this was a treatment session where failure was not an option.

Compared to the others, that unfamiliar fourth person clearly didn't possess any special power or boon. Yet at the same time, his fear of the dark was absolutely top-tier.

So it didn't matter that he had just been instantly killed by the swarm of bugs. His sole purpose for appearing here was to manifest "it" out of the dark through his own thoughts, completely bypassing the need for Fu Qian's cooperation.

As for why he specifically could accomplish this?

Given how exceedingly ordinary he was compared to the others, Fu Qian naturally recalled a certain attribute he had considered earlier—he was an outsider.

It felt like the probability of that identity holding true was growing larger and larger.

And if that were truly the case, the final fate of those patients Doctor Dorian had previously treated didn't seem very optimistic.

"A pleasure. What should I call you?"

These thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant as Fu Qian gave a slight nod, responding to the greeting from the darkness.

After landing a successful strike, the figure hadn't rushed to press the advantage. Instead, it stood there quietly, scrutinizing the man who remained standing before it.

...

His response wasn't purely out of social etiquette.

He knew full well that Dorian was using this as a trump card to force him back into the Church.

But when it came to this executioner of the night, Fu Qian was still more than happy to meet him out here.

He was already looking for a special opening to break the deadlock anyway. How could he easily let go of something so unique?

If given the choice, Fu Qian undoubtedly hoped that "it" truly existed.

Even if it didn't exist in the real Cold Mountain, just gazing upon it like this in the Healing Dreamscape was well worth it in Fu Qian's eyes.

However, its appearance was far less abstract than expected—it was even surprisingly human.

It wasn't some indescribable entity hiding in the dark, nor was it a grotesque amalgamation of flesh and blood. Strikingly, it was a person.

He wore a well-tailored dark coat that seemed to blend seamlessly into the night, visibly adorned with various clinking metal pendants.

And compared to this rather questionable fashion sense, the hat on his head was visibly exquisite.

Though similar in style, its quality was leaps and bounds above the one the Felt Hat Brother had been wearing earlier.

Aside from this highly stylized outfit, one could even clearly see the face beneath the brim of the hat—it was indeed a human face, but it held absolutely no defining features.

That was because every inch of exposed skin was covered in a flat, deathly pallor.

That obviously couldn't be his natural skin tone; it looked more like he had been meticulously painted over.

...

Or perhaps paint mixed with bone ash?

Though it was only a brief glance, the texture felt seemingly familiar, easily reminding Fu Qian of his recent exploration in the Ash Sea.

The hue was slightly different, but the resemblance was undeniably there.

Moreover, it was clear that this fellow was quite fond of the look.

Because it wasn't just his face. His bare left hand bore the exact same color. He had likely slathered the stuff all over his body.

And currently gripped in that hand was a ridiculously oversized Odd-Shaped Long Blade that looked even taller than the man himself.

However, its narrow Blade wasn't painted white. Instead, it was dripping with a layer of slick liquid.

The fluid was clear and oily, emitting no distinct smell, as if the weapon had just been oiled and not yet wiped clean.

But the reason Fu Qian paid special attention to it was simple: that very blade had just cleaved his heart in two, and the wound still hadn't healed.

That's right. He could clearly feel that wherever the blade had passed, a certain power had clung to the wound, inflicting a vicious effect upon it.

It wasn't simply preventing the wound from closing; rather, it was tricking the body into believing it had already healed.

For instance, without even looking down, Fu Qian knew that not a single drop of blood had spilled from his severed chest muscles. It was as if the wound had been instantly glued shut. It was truly miraculous.

It was just a pity that the other party didn't seem too fond of talking, remaining completely indifferent to Fu Qian's polite greeting.

Was he worried his makeup would crack?

Fu Qian still didn't mind. He even thoughtfully found a reasonable excuse for the silence based on the man's cosmetic style.

"Nice weapon. What's it called?"

Of course, even so, there was absolutely no way he was going to easily let go of such a great icebreaker.

Not wanting to talk about oneself was fine; he could just start with hobbies. Many people were quite proud of the weapons they wielded.

"Fracture Cleaver..."

Just as the saying went, utmost sincerity moves even metal and stone. Faced with an opponent who had taken a direct hit yet remained standing and even chatted amiably, the Pale-Faced Bladesman finally gave a response.

Furthermore, if that was indeed the weapon's name, it easily brought to mind the Church members' descriptions of "its" atrocities.

This blade was simply too perfect for butchering living creatures. Paired with the bloodless effect, it truly gave off the impression of taking pleasure in torture.

As he silently critiqued the blade, Fu Qian casually pulled out his own weapon.

"I see. Mine is called Mercy—"

But sadly, the other party didn't seem interested in returning the courtesy.

After confirming that Fu Qian was truly alive and well with zero signs of collapsing, the left hand gripping the blade lashed out again with incredible speed, cutting him off mid-sentence.

Clang!

And this time, there was actually a sound effect, though it was still provided by Fu Qian.

His own empty right hand was now clad in a metal Glove, and he steadily caught the long blade that had already sliced partway into his neck.

It was fast indeed, and thoroughly ruthless.

Seeing no effect after the first strike hit a vital spot, he followed up with a horizontal slash, aiming to decapitate him in one fell swoop.

But it still wasn't enough.

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