Eldritch Horror Theatre

Karma was indeed a cycle, and retribution never missed.

Trapping someone in a prison cell with him—he had pulled that exact stunt not too long ago.

Faced with this sudden shift in circumstances, Fu Qian sighed inwardly.

Granted, the cell's materials looked remarkably sturdy at a glance, but breaking out wouldn't pose much of a challenge for him.

For one thing, he was practically a professional at prison breaks. For another—the door was only pulled shut. It wasn't actually locked.

The prisoner who had suddenly sprung into action had merely closed the gap he had just slipped through. A standard-issue cell like this wouldn't have anything as advanced as an auto-locking mechanism.

That didn't mean the action was meaningless, however. Aside from expressing a fervent desire for him to stay, the sheer volume of that slammed door had been spectacular.

So much so that even as the echo rang in his ears, Fu Qian could already hear rapidly accelerating footsteps approaching.

Locking himself in a cell and summoning the jailers in one smooth move—wasn't this guy trying a bit too hard to earn a reduced sentence?

Having successfully sounded the alarm, the prisoner still showed zero intention of backing away. He stood rooted in place, glaring fixedly at Fu Qian, looking ready to assist the incoming jailers at a moment's notice.

Caught between two fronts in an instant, the situation had grown incredibly complex. In fact, the odds that the man standing before him was an informant for the Night Watchers had only gone up.

Meanwhile, the Pseudo-God Incarnation had almost entered its final countdown, leaving him with little time to figure things out.

Fortunately, Fu Qian had no intention of figuring it out.

Faced with a prisoner who was clearly capable of speech, he didn't ask a single question. He simply swung his blade.

...

He had to respect the character he was playing. When had Brother White-Faced Man ever been a chatterbox?

Besides, he was ninety-nine percent sure that asking anything would only result in a counter-probing response. Was it really worth sacrificing the authenticity of his disguise for that?

The moment he had chosen this disguise, the strategy to maximize his gains for this excursion had already been set: just keep swinging. He would leave the brain-burning detective work to the Night Watchers.

To Fu Qian, the strongest thought in his mind right now was that wielding this type of weapon in such a confined space was truly a crime against humanity.

Though he had aimed to capture its essence rather than create a perfect one-to-one replica, Fu Qian hadn't skimped on the length of the Severing Long Saber—a weapon Brother White-Faced Man treated as his own life.

As a result, swinging it in this cramped space without the blade bouncing off the walls required quite a bit of finesse.

As for why he had opted for a bone-like blade instead of the original gleaming surface, despite going to such lengths to get everything else right?

For one, achieving that kind of polish would take extra effort. For another, he naturally had an ulterior motive.

Slash—

Pros and cons were always relative. Wielding a long saber in a tight space was a hassle, but the upside was that dodging it was equally troublesome.

True to someone confident enough to try and earn a pardon through merit, the prisoner inside the cell was indeed a master.

Faced with a strike as swift as lightning, the man—who had still been half-expecting Fu Qian to say something—scrambled out of the way. He only lost half an arm in the panicked evasion.

The severed limb barely touched the ground before it shot right back to his stump, reattaching itself as if time had flowed backward.

He possessed a similar self-healing ability.

Quickly drawing this conclusion, Fu Qian seamlessly launched his second strike.

Clang!

This time, however, his opponent didn't retreat. Instead, the man charged forward with absolute resolve, closing the distance and swatting the blade aside to make any follow-up attacks difficult to execute.

"Who are you?"

At the exact same time, he demanded coldly, as if he had just discovered something.

...

A true veteran.

Fu Qian had to mentally applaud the opponent's response.

Closing in to counter a long weapon in tight quarters was indeed a solid tactic, and an easy one to think of.

The hard part was executing it without a sliver of hesitation.

In terms of combat technique, this guy was on an entirely different level from the Plain Knight.

And that rapid-fire question showed an equally sharp mind.

His sudden, firm tone didn't mean his initial assessment had been wrong and he didn't know the White-Faced Man. Quite the opposite—not only did he know him, but he was now absolutely certain that Fu Qian wasn't him. That was why he asked.

Why had his attitude shifted only after taking a hit?

It was simple. The last time Fu Qian had realized just how formidable Brother White-Faced Man was, it had also been right after taking a hit.

The peculiar power coating the blade in the form of grease had completely prevented the wound on his chest from healing.

Honestly, to some degree, that ability would have been perfect for a spear-and-shield showdown against the self-repairing properties of this place.

In short, his own strike lacked that special effect.

Noticing that missing anomaly, the opponent had immediately voiced his question.

This reaction proved exactly that the prisoner wasn't just familiar with this look—he knew exactly what being cut by the Fracture Cleaver was supposed to look like.

Rich in combat experience, incredibly knowledgeable, and perfectly decisive. Could this guy be not just an informant, but an actual Night Watcher?

Making these rapid deductions, Fu Qian felt absolutely no embarrassment at being exposed. Without a single word, he pulled back to open up the distance.

Boom—

Unfortunately, the decibel level still spiked the next moment.

An ear-splitting crash erupted from the side. A Plain Knight—identical in appearance to the previous one—had just arrived, slamming a heavy fist ruthlessly against the bars.

Though the iron door displayed extraordinary resilience and wasn't completely shattered, it still buckled into a mangled lump of metal that could clearly no longer be opened.

...

No wonder they didn't bother with locks.

Taking in the sight, Fu Qian was just deeply appreciating how everything really had a logical explanation when the Plain Knight followed up with a massive shield bash.

Amidst an even more exaggerated crash, shattered metal finally flew inside.

It obviously couldn't care less if there was a prisoner trying to earn merit inside.

At the same time, under this continuous string of massive noises, more footsteps were clearly approaching.

Additionally, it was easy to observe that the damaged cell wasn't showing any immediate signs of restoring itself.

Did this mean he needed to turn their tactics back upon them, and that only using their weapons would be effective?

Hmph—

Fu Qian gripped the hilt of his saber with both hands.

Only by devoting oneself entirely to the blade could one devote oneself entirely to the heart.

They were still underestimating the discipline of a top-tier swordsman.

Knowing full well that striking out might expose a flaw, why had he still swung?

Because that flaw had a perfectly good explanation, of course.

In that moment, Fu Qian ignored the metal shrapnel splattering against his body.

He stepped and spun. The confined space seemed to no longer hold any meaning for him as the long saber carved a terrifying arc, shattering every obstacle in its path until it tore through the upper half of the Plain Knight.

Unlike before, the blade was no longer dripping with that wetness. Instead, it was completely wreathed in roaring golden flames.

Since he could be exposed, what was there that couldn't be exposed?

The closer this prisoner's ties were to the Night Watchers, the greater the significance of this excursion would be.

Soon, they would receive the news: the golden flames had not only devoured the White-Headed Sanctuary, but had even corrupted the White-Faced Bladesman who prowled the ruins of faith.

The reason the wound no longer carried the power to prevent healing was because the 'grease' had been ignited, mutating the very nature of that power.

No matter how you looked at it, it was a good story.

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