Using the MC system to pretend spiritual revival

Chapter 269.

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It was a very small, dark, and damp room, with only a small window protruding from the corner.

Amen remembered.

This was a resting place he had found during his escape, but he seemed to relax suddenly and couldn't hold on any longer, so he passed out.

Everything before was a hallucination or dream he had while he was unconscious.

"..."

"Ah…"

He gave a bitter laugh, a mix of emotions running through him. The successive blows and pressures he had been under were simply too much; only in despair could one have such a dream.

I shook my head and felt a wave of dizziness.

However, it did help clear my head a bit.

At the same time, I finally sensed something was amiss.

A strange sensation came from his right hand, causing him to raise his hand in confusion and open his palm.

A clean, white tooth rolled out immediately, reflecting a cold light in the dimly lit room.

"this…?"

The confusion jolted his still-unclear mind.

He recalled the heartwarming scene from his dream.

Suddenly, a bad thought popped into my head.

This caused his pupils to shrink sharply, and he trembled as he reached out and gently wiped his mouth.

When you remove it again, a splash of bright red is so striking even in the dimly lit room.

In that instant, he felt as if his heart had stopped.

With a trembling, stiff body, she slowly turned around and looked at the dining table shrouded in shadow in the corner of the house.

His lips moved, but he couldn't utter a sound for a long time. As soon as he took a step, his seemingly rusty body collapsed instantly.

"Pfft..."

Pain emanated from all parts of the body, jolting the consciousness that was on the verge of collapse due to fear, bringing it back to a state of clarity and a moment of rationality.

Realizing that all of this was just my own speculation, and that the answer I feared might not have happened.

Or perhaps, at this moment, I am still immersed in another nightmare...

Various thoughts raced through my mind, but in the end, they all turned into expectations that denied my own conjectures.

Yamen, who was lying on the ground, also quickly crawled along using his hands and feet, not caring about his appearance.

After he scrambled to the corner of the room, his palm pressed against a wet, sticky substance, and he slowly and laboriously stood up.

What I saw was a dark red bloodstain, and a head lying on the table, its flesh and skin gone, smashed and hollowed out…

I savored the sweet, metallic taste in my mouth.

Amen felt as if his tongue had gone numb, turning into a wooden board, stirring the air but only producing hissing sounds.

His last shred of illusion was shattered, and the stark truth was laid bare, forcing him to confront reality.

"..."

"Ugh—! Ugh—! Ugh—!"

……

There was nothing else.

And so, the vomiting continued for an unknown period of time.

He trembled as he struggled to his feet, having vomited until he had nothing left to vomit.

He raised his palm, staring blankly at the bloodstains on it.

For some reason, her hands, which had become fair and delicate, now appeared even longer and whiter, making them look rather jarring against the backdrop of bloodstains.

As he thought this, Amen's chaotic mind suddenly felt as if it had been pricked by a needle.

……

These hands had no connection to the rough, dark hands that existed before his body underwent the strange transformation, but the more Amen looked at them now, the more familiar they seemed.

That sense of familiarity burned like fire in my heart.

The throbbing, needle-like sensation in his nerves caused him to convulse and frantically wipe his hands on his chest.

After wiping away the bloodstains, he held it up to his eyes again.

I stared blankly for a while.

Then he seemed to go crazy and ran to the other side of the house.

There was a small, dilapidated wooden door. Pushing it open, you would see a dirty and messy bathroom.

Yamen, who staggered in, went straight for a dressing mirror in the dim light.

"..."

He pressed his hands against the sink, pressing his terrified face against it.

Before my eyes, a pair of jet-black eyes, now filled with terror and shock, met my gaze in the mirror. As I ran, disheveled black hair fell down, brushing against my pale cheeks and clinging to the mirror's surface.

A pert nose, delicate lips, and a dark beauty mark beside her wide-open eyes…

This isn't his face, but it's all too familiar.

“Tomie Kawakami…”

Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Yamen slowly raised his hand, watching as his palm brushed across his cheek, leaving some bloodstains.

He got it.

He finally understood.

After regaining consciousness following my injury, my body underwent a series of changes.

A series of messages and images flashed by, and the answer emerged.

"........."

"Blood transfusion... I see, I see..."

After being injured, the doctor transfused him with the blood of Tomie Kawakami, the very person who had taken him for treatment.

At that moment, he finally realized that the somewhat dull girl he had led along was ultimately the "thing" he had devoured.

"Wow!"

A sound of a flowerpot being overturned came from the window behind me.

The boy, dressed in a thin white shirt, moved his legs with some difficulty and turned around to look.

As a result, behind the half-open window, a fluffy little fox with a pair of lively eyes appeared.

The other person didn't seem afraid of people, and just stared at the boy who had turned around.

"You...you came from the mountains?"

The boy didn't seem surprised. Or rather, this wooden house, built against the mountain forest, was often visited by small animals from the mountains.

Seeing that the other person wasn't running away, the boy smiled gently, picked up his cane leaning against the table, struggled to support himself, opened a drawer and took out a few pastries.

Supporting herself with her cane, she walked step by step to the window, gently picked up a piece of pastry, and placed it in front of the little fox:

"Are you hungry? Do you want some? I made it myself, and it tastes pretty good."

The little fox seemed to understand what he meant. It leaned forward to sniff the pastry in the other person's hand, then opened its mouth, took the pastry in its mouth, and swallowed it.

Seemingly intoxicated by the novel taste, so different from the food found in the mountains, its narrow fox eyes squinted, and it let out a humming sound.

Seeing this, the boy smiled and took out a second piece, putting it into his mouth.

This is the first encounter between two lives.

Every day after that, the little fox would come here to ask the human for pastries.

Over time, the little fox lay quietly to one side, while the boy, bathed in the bright mountain sunlight, sat at his desk, writing and drawing. This scene repeated itself every day.

And just like that, half a month flew by.

The boy also noticed some of the fox's extraordinary qualities. Not only did it seem to understand human speech, but it was also unlike other animals in the mountains, which were restless and active. It was like a tranquil and peaceful spirit, just like the magnificent mountains. In the more than ten days they spent together, it had never even barked loudly.

The boy who guarded this lonely house had grown accustomed to this somewhat special friend, often confiding his troubles and feelings to him. The little fox, perched beside the painting table, listened intently with its round eyes, offering no response.

Over time, through these fragmented narratives and heartfelt confessions, the little fox also learned some of the stories of this thin human.

He said he was born into a family that spent their days drawing and writing to earn a living. Those winding, curving things on paper, which didn't resemble mountains or rivers at all, were their means of survival.

But one day, the human's father and mother passed away, just like the fox. However, unlike the fox, the human fell ill with a fatal disease. He could no longer run, jump, or search for food. But his parents had left behind many things, which the sick human traded for a large amount of food, and thus came to live in the wooden hut where the two now reside.

The fox's little head couldn't quite grasp these things, but it understood that humans were dying.

Humans spent less and less time getting out of their wooden beds and less and less time talking to foxes. It was this gradual change that allowed the foxes, who had always roamed the mountains and forests, to experience for the first time what death and disease were and what they were, and what followed was resistance.

The fox didn't want humans to die. If humans died, there would be no more pastries; if humans died, there would be no one to talk to; if humans died, there would be no one to read to it those poems it couldn't understand but that sounded interesting...?

"What are you thinking about, little fox?"

The boy sat on the wooden chair, his figure even thinner, his face revealing an undeniable weakness. But he didn't care; it was only a matter of time.

At this moment, the little fox lying next to the desk seemed a little different; it buried its small head in its thick, fluffy tail.

Do small animals have their own worries? The boy didn't know, but he was interested and patient enough to find out. He knew the little fox could understand him, so he was also thinking about what to say.

His gaze swept over the shelf of paintbrushes and calligraphy brushes in the corner of the desk, and his eyes lit up. He took down one of the brushes, which was obviously more exquisitely made, and placed it in front of the little fox.

Noticing his movement, the little fox had already raised its head from its tail and saw a strange object placed in front of it. But it knew that humans used this object to write and draw on paper every day.

This strange thing had a snow-white, furry head, while the tip was red, just like its tail.

The little fox curiously stretched its head out and sniffed at the tip of the calligraphy brush.

Seeing this adorable scene, a faint smile appeared on the boy's sickly face, and he spoke softly:
"Little fox, we've known each other for so long, and I still don't know your name?"

"No name?"

"Alright..."

"This pen was a birthday gift from my father when he was still alive. It's called Fox Tail, and I'm giving it to you."

As he spoke, the boy picked up his brush, dipped it in ink, and wrote the two characters "fox tail" on the spread-out white paper:
"Seeing an object is like seeing a person; you're so smart, you should understand..."

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(End of this chapter)