Eldritch Horror Theatre

I knew it. Creating a dependent race just for fun because you were bored—that excuse was always a bit of a stretch.

Inside the dim Warehouse, Fu Qian seemed to have peeked into the shocking secret of an ancient race.

Annalise certainly liked red eyes, but the actual catalyst that prompted her to forge an ancient race with that very trait... was actually the Long Night?

She had received the Primordial Moon's enlightenment in a dream. From it, she learned of something that terrified even the Primordial Moon itself—yet that same revelation had filled her with anticipation.

And in the process of preparing for it, the Blood Clan was born.

Looking at it that way, those big bats might actually be hiding something incredible.

More importantly, this incredible something seemed to have never been put to use.

Because "Annalise did not live to see the Long Night"—she had already perished before it arrived.

Writing the Chronicles of the Moon had definitely been a wise decision.

Even the Primordial Moon and Annalise—two higher entities confirmed to have perished before the Long Night—shared a rather astonishing relationship.

How had they managed that?

He could only conclude that the Moon God, who had suddenly decided to pull a reincarnation stunt, had just become even more mysterious.

Additionally, the notes seemed to reveal another familiar name: the legendary First Apostle Herbert.

It even subtly hinted at the possible origins of Ancient Reminiscence, the transcendent item formed from his eyeball.

Annalise loved red eyes, and she demanded that they be natural.

As her loyal follower, Herbert hadn't quite met that standard.

So Herbert did something utterly insane. He gouged out his original eyes, discarded them, and willingly transformed into a member of the Blood Clan just to seek her intimate favor.

Though it seemed he never got his wish in the end...

And speaking of the Blood Clan, one thing seemed to finally become clear: where exactly did the Abyss Notes come from?

The phrasing in the notes made it quite obvious: "The Lie she shared with the Blood Clan."

Yes, that item was a boon from the Progenitor.

This could even explain why the Abyss Notes and the True Word Notebook shared such a connection.

At their core, the True Word Notebook and the Sanitarium were both born from the Divine Dream of Blood Clan Progenitor Annalise, serving as her channel for communicating with the Primordial Moon.

He could almost picture her inside that dream, using a notebook-like format to verify the truth of certain matters.

And her vampire dependents certainly lived up to their title—they were actually gifted a replica of that very artifact.

It was just a pity that those big bats were a bit unreliable and hardly wrote anything serious in it... or did they?

For a moment, Fu Qian held back his contempt, silently asking himself that question.

Without a deep understanding of the True Word Notebook's true nature, some connections might have been hard to make.

But after realizing its underlying foundation was actually a massive pile of shit—especially after witnessing the heap of nonsense the Harbinger had written in it—its aura of mystique had obviously faded.

It was hard to say what her true purpose was, but as a dignified higher entity, no matter how much she liked the little bats she had created, she shouldn't have let them use an artifact like that to pry into secrets unchecked.

Perhaps the original copy had contained far more sensitive content, only for it to be seamlessly erased.

Statements like "Annalise has completely fallen" almost certainly couldn't have been written in it back before the distant Long Night.

But then again, even with the Progenitor gone and the Blood Clan in decline, an artifact with the pedigree of the Abyss Notes falling into Brother Taylor's hands was still a bit too absurd to believe. Unless...

In that moment, Fu Qian's thoughts seemed to veer toward an even more startling possibility.

Unless... the Abyss Notes falling into his hands was the only way it could fall into the hands of his business partner.

...

Once the conspiracy theories start, there is just no stopping them.

Fu Qian had never shied away from analyzing his own situation from the most pessimistic angle possible.

So much so that even one of The Bookstore's most successful business partnerships to date was now cast in a shadow of doubt.

Brother Taylor was indeed a rather straightforward guy. However, for an item so closely connected to a higher entity to be delivered right to his doorstep shortly after he stationed himself in Shangjing... his role in all of this looked an awful lot like a delivery courier's.

Was someone orchestrating this from behind the scenes? Was the entire Blood Clan just a pawn in their game?

Assuming that were the case, who would want the Lie to fall into his hands?

The Red Moon? Fu Qian shook his head.

Its mental state was perhaps unstable enough to serve as a foundation for pulling off something crazy.

But there was one glaring paradox: the Red Moon had been doing everything in its power to locate him back then.

If it knew his address that clearly, why would it have needed Ambor's sacrifice later on? That would be completely backward.

Not to mention, during their very first encounter, it had warned him not to "indulge in lies."

Interesting... So who could it be?

Clicking his tongue, Fu Qian felt as though his experiences in the Bookstore World were revealing a far more profound and weighty layer.

Not in a rush to find a definitive answer to this problem, he lowered his gaze to what he was holding.

...

Did the Warehouse have a slightly skewed understanding of the concept of a "weapon"?

Feeling its silky texture, Fu Qian felt his lingering hopes die completely.

It was exactly as described: a solid black, elbow-length Glove without so much as a single rivet on it.

The material was peculiar, though. It was thin, yet neither silk nor velvet, and radiated a faint warmth, feeling almost like a layer of Skin with blood still pulsing through it.

It was certainly long enough, but no matter how he looked at it, it seemed like a spellcasting prop at best.

Naturally, Fu Qian didn't mind. Without even overthinking what kind of Skin it might be made of, he simply slid it on.

It was incredibly elastic, stretching all the way up to cover his right elbow without feeling tight in the slightest.

However, after clenching his fist and throwing a test punch, Fu Qian couldn't feel a single trace of physical enhancement. The Warehouse's categorization of a weapon really left him speechless.

The visual effect was pretty good, at least. Despite being pure black, it carried a hint of understated elegance.

Beneath its immaculate, dustless surface, it looked like it could conceal any secret... Wait.

Realizing something, Fu Qian raised his hand and pulled up his left sleeve.

The abstract crimson pattern was still entrenched there, shifting slowly across his flesh as if it were alive.

This was his harvest from his last expedition to the Bone Burial Ground—the Crimson Frenzy that the Dragon King had so graciously shared with him.

He had complained before that walking around with this thing looked too suspicious to pass a background check, but he couldn't completely hide it either. He could only adjust its position—

Under Fu Qian's gaze, the strange pattern quickly twisted and deformed, migrating all the way upward.

Across his shoulder, over his chest... until it appeared on his right arm, finally slithering underneath the black Glove.

Not bad at all. Just right.

He clenched his fist again to get a feel for it. Realizing that the pattern was now completely concealed, Fu Qian nodded in deep satisfaction.

This even made his left and right sides perfectly symmetrical.

Dimensional Poison on one side, Annalise's Lies combined with Crimson Frenzy on the other. He had manually cobbled together a pair of Tyrant's Fists.

Or even Tyrant's Poison Fists.

Snap—

Amidst his marveling, Fu Qian snapped his fingers with his right hand. The sound was not very crisp, but a streak of crimson instantly bloomed out of thin air.

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