I, the leader of the esoteric sect, am doing great things in the infinite world!

Due to a notification from our superiors, Walden Pond Bar will be temporarily closed for renovations for one day. Normal working hours will resume the following day. Please stay tuned.

In layman's terms, my recent work-rest schedule has become increasingly chaotic. Considering that online classes are about to switch to in-person classes, I've decided to take a day off to adjust my writing schedule, otherwise I'll eventually collapse from exhaustion.

I also need to catch up on some assignments. These teachers are really outrageous; why are all the practical training reports piled up together? (Annoying)

151 Rarely serious content

A brave duel exhibition match, or to use a more common name: underground boxing.

This underground boxing match, held at Walden Pond Bar, offered the winner the right to hold one million dollars worth of bonds, while bettors could earn five to ten times their initial investment through successive rounds of betting.

It sounds like the ramblings of a madman in his dream, but this is a waking world influenced by mysterious forces. In the increasingly prosperous New World, there are quite a few people who can hold a million-dollar bond.

The Hand of Reshaping, raising the banner of secret arts, comes from the lower reaches of history. Their vision, transcending the entire era, allows them to avoid risks in advance and find opportunities to make money. In this era of economic prosperity, as long as they can find a few oil fields and invest in a few companies that are about to take off, they can easily reach the pinnacle of wealth.

After saying all that, it all boils down to one thing: speculation and profiteering.

The Walden Pond bar, filled with the aroma of essential oils and bathed in a hazy, mysterious atmosphere, suddenly dimmed. Amidst gasps of surprise, a bright light shone on Forget-Me-Not, dressed in a tuxedo, in the center of the stage.

Her brown hair was pulled back, and Forget-Me-Not reached out to push up her glasses and straighten the black rose on her collar.

"welcome."

He looked directly at each of the excited men and women in the audience, his magnetic voice echoing under the desolate sky.

"Welcome all the mortals, the extraordinary, and the mystics; the morally and the immorally; supporters of regulations and democratic reformers; free thinkers and churchgoers..."

"—Welcome to your eternal home, Walden Pond."

With his hands clasped in front of him, he walked a few steps respectfully on the stage, and was pleased to hear cheers erupting from the crowd of guests below.

As the cheers subsided, his magnetic voice rang out again: "Well, the previous revelry seemed to have satisfied you all quite a bit—in that case, I'll generously offer each of you a glass of specially made psychedelic water to celebrate this special night."

Cheers and laughter filled the air, and some enthusiastic people shouted from below the stage: "To our Walden Pond! To our generous Mr. Forget-Me-Not!"

Forget-Me-Not had a smile on his lips as he looked gently at the jeering crowd: "Oh, no, no, my friends, there's no need to be so enthusiastic. In my opinion, let's focus on the upcoming exhibition match, but don't get too caught up in the market trends. This time, the challenger is no nobody."

"Listen to me, my friend, you will receive an astonishingly high reward."

He opened his arms and pressed his palms down.

For a moment, the whole place was silent.

Upon closer listening, it became clear that it wasn't absolute silence, but rather a heartbeat that gradually grew stronger, drowning out all the other noises.

The heartbeat seemed to come from the distant darkness, or perhaps it originated from underground.

A gray curtain fell from above, and the figure of the forget-me-not had disappeared at some point. Only his voice came from behind the curtain, powerful and impassioned.

"Shh—Next, please allow me to introduce the sixteen contestants participating in this dueling exhibition. Some are mystics from the ivory tower, some are inheritors of Blavatsky's theosophy, some once roamed the Irish wilderness in inhuman form, and some have returned from the hell of the Somme..."

"Next, please welcome our first challenger to the stage. Let's announce his name!"

"Johann Neville, a devout Catholic priest, a priest in charge of the Vienna diocese, a moral gentleman with a martyr's heart who wanted to emulate Saint Agony."

As the voice of forget-me-not rang out, a gray curtain instantly turned purple. Then the curtain parted, and a handsome young man with a pale face, dressed in black robes, stood on the stage. His expression looked somewhat dazed and hesitant, but soon, those hesitations vanished from his deep purple pupils.

“A week ago, a tragedy occurred in the St. Agnes Church in Vienna’s East End. All the priests and clergy there were brutally murdered, except for Mr. Neville, who was out of town and thus escaped the massacre.”

Forget-me-not's voice was still so gentle, yet it was full of hidden malice, like edelweiss hiding sparks, stirring the emotions of the gathered guests.

"Is a priest who does the most ordinary work now standing on this stage because he is filled with the wrath of God? Or is he trying to make these serpents bear fruit worthy of repentance?!"

"Let's take a look at Mr. Neville's opponent—"

The gray curtain was suddenly drawn back, and in the swirling dust and lamplight, a petite girl stood there.

She wore an open women's suit jacket, the lining of which was decorated with crested ibis tail feathers that shone like flames, and the cheap pearl necklace around her fair neck glittered under the light.

The exile drew his gun.

"Wow, looks like he's really lucky. He actually drew his target on his first try—"

"A villain who, upon arriving in Vienna, went on a rampage and slaughtered an entire parish... Come! Welcome, Miss Assassin from Sicily!"

On the two gray curtains, two crimson lines representing the odds suddenly appeared, and began to rise or fall wildly.

"Beting has begun, everyone. You have one minute."

A minute passes in the blink of an eye.

Just as the last grain of sand in the hourglass had run out, a sharp gunshot shattered the silence.

The exile suddenly crouched down, and the ivory-decorated pistol spewed flames.

One gunshot rang out, followed by three flashes of light.

The first bullet pierced the solemn black robe, the second bullet broke through the air that was suddenly stained with deep purple, and the third bullet struck the tail of the second bullet with a deafening roar, hitting Neville squarely in the shoulder!

Sound waves and intense light burst forth from the tattered gray curtain. The exile's eyes narrowed, unaffected, and his hunched body leaped into the dust.

Neville's lips were pale. He did not cry out in pain, but instead firmly pressed his palm into the empty space in front of him.

A deep purple band of light flowed out of the air, coiling around him like a giant serpent, waiting for its chance to strike.

Upon closer inspection, the band of light was indeed growing from the wound on Neville's shoulder.

"Before opening something, one must open oneself."

He silently prayed for the teachings of Saint Agony, then waved his hand, hurling the deep purple ribbon of light at the drifting gray curtain before him. Wherever it passed, everything turned into a deathly white.

In the Church of St. Agnes, there is a strong conviction that the principle of revelation is superior to all else, not only because revelation can dismantle other mystical traditions, but also because of the various signs of divine revelation.

Since the Messiah of Nazareth opened himself on the cross, how many saints of the church have been martyred and suffered?

boom! boom! boom!

Within the gray curtain, gunfire erupted again, but this time, no bullets could hit Neville's body. All the bullets were swallowed up by the deep purple light band as they approached him.

Clang, clang, clang—

The scorching brass bullets rained down on them like a storm.

A sense of unease inexplicably rose within Neville.

He couldn't sense the assassin's location.

That girl seemed to have vanished without a trace, like a light, floating feather.

152 Boring, I want to see rivers of blood.

How can a person be as light as a feather?

Unfortunately, the assassin Neville faced did not have the blood of the Deceased.

The gray curtain only obstructed the view of the two fighters on stage; it posed no obstacle to the guests gathered below.

Therefore, they could see it clearly: the girl with the bob haircut walked leisurely among the floating curtains after firing the first shot.

Many times, the terrifying purple light almost struck the crimson tail feathers that floated on her chest, but each time it missed by a hair's breadth.

The killer who slaughtered an entire parish of clergy even had a faint smile on his lips!

If there wasn't a fundamental difference in combat experience between the two sides, how could such a cat-and-mouse game have occurred?

The guests in the audience sighed, not because they lamented Neville's impending fate, but because they regretted their blindness in betting on him.

As if realizing he had fallen into the exiles' scheme, a flush of anger rose on Neville's pale face.

He drew a silver dagger and stabbed it into his own eye.

The guests below the stage could no longer contain their shouts. This act of self-harm deeply aroused them, and the roars rose and fell like waves from below the dueling platform.

"What a wonderful smell of blood!"

The priest on the platform was trembling with immense pain.

A rich, deep purple aura surrounded him, protecting him from being shot and killed by the exiles.

"If your right eye causes you to fall, gouge it out...and throw it away."

He bent over in immense pain, his left hand covering his pale face, and hoarse murmurs escaped from his bloodless lips.

"I'd rather lose one part of my body than have my whole body thrown into hell!"

The silver blade plunged deep into his eye socket, gouging out his eyeball.

Everyone stared fervently at the madman on the stage, watching him gouge out his own eyeballs and throw them to the ground, watching him straighten up, and watching the violent light burst forth from his empty eye sockets.

Where my right eye once rested, now only a shocking empty hole remains. The wound healed rapidly, but left behind a horrifying scar.

The deep purple light band, which had been waving aimlessly, transformed in an instant into a venomous snake, reaching over the heavy gray curtain and towards the exile!

Forget-me-not's voice rang out at the right moment: "Truly brilliant—of all the priests I have ever met, very few have been able to make the decision to unlock the Scar Lock over the years."

"After all, how many saints are there who can make such a grand vow to become gatekeepers in the waking world?"

The guests below the stage whispered among themselves and soon learned what the so-called "scar lock" was.

That was a ritual of crucifixion inherited from the martyr Saint Agony. The specific way it was performed was to use a knife or some other sharp object to make a terrible wound on the body according to some secret code of conduct. Once the permanent wound was left, the crucified priest would gain permanent power.

Very few people can endure such pain, and even fewer priests are qualified to bear it.

This is a scar lock of the lamp, through which Neville has been able to invoke the power of the lamp's image.