Cthulhu America, I can see the kill line.

If there are gods in the world, would they love humans?

If it is love, is it to love everyone equally, or only to love those who believe in God?

If the gods, in order to test humanity, give humanity a box and warn them that by opening it, they can know whether the gods love humanity and what kind of people they love; but once the box is opened, no matter what happened before, the gods will no longer love humanity, and humanity will never receive the gods' favor again.

So, will humans open this box again?

Henry Robertson had been unconsciously pondering this question for forty years.

As the "keeper of secrets" of the Quaker Church, Henry received this seemingly simple yet incredibly heavy box from the previous keeper of secrets on the day he was blessed as a believer at the age of thirty.

He couldn't help but tremble slightly when he first touched the box.

Even though he was only a C-level psychic, he could feel the immense power of the powerful spiritual energy through the thin stone box, and sense the antiquity and mystery contained within it.

This stone box symbolizes the question that has no answer:

Would a person risk losing God's favor to open the box containing the answer?

The keeper of secrets is the saint who guards the answer to the question, "Does God truly love humanity?"

To be precise, they were foolish saints.

To think that God does not love the world is to doubt that God does not love the world.

To doubt that God does not love humanity is to be unworthy of God's love.

Those who truly deserve to be loved don't need to think.

The person who truly deserves to be loved is foolish.

Henry Robertson was such a "foolish saint," a "keeper of secrets."

He had to stare at the box every day, yet forced himself not to think deeply about the problem, in order to demonstrate his blind loyalty and foolish sanctity.

Whenever the thought arose, he would close his eyes tightly, move his lips silently, and recite scriptures to dispel the unnecessary doubt.

This is the foolish saint, Henry Robertson of the Quaker Church.

For forty years, I have served and looked after this box day after day, constantly reminding myself not to question it, not to think about it, but simply to watch over it.

Until this morning, a piece of news came.

The bishop who was supposed to be in charge of the "Guardian of Secrets" handover ceremony for him was killed in a plane crash yesterday while flying from Xinxiang to Hills.

When he heard the news, Henry was sitting on a stone bench, his fingers unconsciously stroking the edge of the box. His eyes widened in surprise for a moment, then turned into a murky blankness.

His lips twitched slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end it just turned into a barely audible sigh.

Henry was very sad, but he couldn't show it.

The box that should have been handled by someone else today will now be in his hands for a few more days or weeks.

After dismissing the young cleric who had delivered the message, Henry, hunched over, slowly walked back to the cramped "secret chamber" and stared blankly at the box.

His gaze lingered on the box for a long time, his eyes expressionless, yet seemingly teeming with countless undercurrents.

He is old, exactly 70 years old.

Deep wrinkles etched his forehead and the corners of his eyes, his skin hanging loosely on his frame. Only his hands, which held the box, though covered in age spots, still showed signs of their former strength.

Forty years ago, he was an ambitious and decisive priest.

At that time, his eyes shone with the light of faith, his steps were firm, his voice was loud, and he was determined to make a difference in the church.

He is a C-level psychic, and his words carry considerable weight in the church; he has countless colleagues.

In his youthful memories, Amerigo was indulging in a life of extravagance and debauchery.

Influenced by this, Henry also wanted to actively promote church reform, becoming more secular and adaptable.

Unfortunately, because his reforms offended some people, Henry was labeled a "traitor".

During that period, he often suffered from insomnia, his face was haggard but his eyes were stubborn, and his heart was filled with resentment and anger.

He decided to use the most extreme method to clear his name and prove his loyalty to the church:

Receive blessings.

Abandon everything and become a "foolish saint who keeps secrets" who dedicates his life to it.

In this way, he can obtain the title of saint.

He succeeded, and no one doubted his loyalty to the church or his zeal for the Lord anymore.

People's gaze toward him shifted from suspicion to awe, and then gradually from awe to oblivion.

He failed; without his impetus, church reform remained outdated and corrupt.

Occasionally, upon hearing news from outside, he would sit alone on a stone bench, his eyes dim, his fingers unconsciously clenching, as if trying to grasp something that had already passed away.

Henry sighed very softly, his voice sounding as if squeezed from the depths of his chest, carrying the weariness and toil of years.

He slowly sat back down on the stone bench that had been with him for forty years, holding the box tightly in his arms as if he were holding a silent infant.

With his other hand, he spread out the scriptures, his fingertips lightly tracing the yellowed pages, the movements mechanical yet practiced.

Forty years, the box, the scriptures, the stone bench—his life has been spent on these few objects.

Henry felt a mixture of relief and numbness.

Sometimes he felt an almost empty peace, while at other times he would wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat, as if countless tiny needles were pricking his heart.

The phrase "wasting one's youth" terrified him more than the question of "whether God loves people."

"Knock knock knock..."

Just as he was trying to calm his restless mind by reciting scriptures, a knock on the door sounded particularly clear in the quiet room.

Who?

For forty years, apart from very few notices from the church, very few people have knocked on this door.

Henry's body stiffened abruptly, and his hands tightened involuntarily around the box.

He slowly raised his head, a hint of confusion flashing in his cloudy eyes, along with a barely perceptible, long-lost flutter of emotion.

If it weren't for reciting scriptures every day, Henry would have lost his ability to speak long ago.

He opened his mouth, a dry, grinding sound coming from his throat. After several attempts, he finally managed to find his voice.

He rose shakily, his movements slow and stiff, and, holding onto the edge of the stone bench, slowly moved to the door.

The wrinkled hand gripped the doorknob, pausing for a moment, as if gathering strength to open the door, or perhaps hesitating about the unknown behind it.

He opened the door.

An Eastern youth's face appeared before him.

The young man had deep-set eyes and a calm, almost indifferent expression, his gaze fixed on the box in Henry's arms.

Give me the box.

The young man didn't waste any words. He pointed directly at the box and spoke in a low voice, which resonated in the small space.

Henry glanced at the young man with a puzzled look, his brows furrowing slightly, making the lines on his forehead appear even deeper.

He looked down at the box in his hand again, his fingers unconsciously stroking the surface of the wooden box a couple of times, as if to confirm its existence.

The old man's eyes were filled with confusion, wariness, and a hint of deep unease.

"Were you sent by the church?"

The old man's voice was as harsh as cheap rubber wipers scraping against a car window—dry, broken, each syllable sounding like it was being squeezed out of his lungs with difficulty. But Kong Jiu could still barely understand what he meant.

"No," Kong Jiu said bluntly, his lips devoid of even a smile, his eyes sharp as knives.

"I'm here to destroy that spiritual object that houses concepts."