Facing an Ancient God for a Year

Chapter 1283: Chapter 1281: Loss of Image (25)

“So, it’s because of the special decree power on him, isn’t it?”

Not only did it render him immune to the Clear Dream Ring, but he didn’t even hear the voices.

Though under the Star’s Blessing, Orintel’s constitution was far superior to that of mortals, to Fu Qian, it was merely akin to a sandbag that was just slightly tougher.

With a single slap that left only half his face intact, Orintel was thrown against the wall, instantly plunging into a state of blurred consciousness.

As the chief physician of Caring Valley, of course, personal revenge over differing opinions wasn’t his style.

But this one thing he often said lingered: most of the pain in this world is not the retribution for evildoing, but merely the fallout from bad luck.

To Fu Qian, it was hard to determine how much of Orintel’s decisive, efficient assault earlier—killing the main culprit first and blocking him so exactly—was truly of his own volition.

Most likely, after canceling his signature ability, some other “voice” manifested within Orintel’s mind, effectively helping him realize the depth of hatred aimed at him.

If that were the case, then Orintel could also count as a victim.

And considering the piling misfortunes, Fu Qian decisively opted for this “method,” stopping him from spiraling further down the wrong path.

That was reason number one.

Switching deliberately into the Frostburn State for that slap ensured its unique scar could inadvertently be taken to The Sect.

The patience Fu Qian displayed tonight wasn’t just because he uncovered connections here entwined deeply with decree power, but also because Orintel’s association with The Sect was another critical goal.

They significantly underestimated the importance of the World Within the Painting.

Fu Qian had initially considered visiting them midway through the mission to help rectify this.

But as it turned out, Natalie’s plan had saved him considerable effort.

And the final reason…

Fu Qian glanced toward the shattered window and leapt out without hesitation.

By the time The Sect treated Orintel, they’d be astonished to discover a unique wound.

In that prior slap, Fu Qian had infused a trace of Dimensional Poison.

This particularly troublesome injury would undoubtedly test how The Sect, with its command over decree power, would respond and to what extent they could handle it—a conclusion Fu Qian eagerly anticipated during their next encounter.

…

Though his movements were seamless, it had merely cost him a few seconds.

Yet by the time Fu Qian emerged outside, Jane’s figure had already vanished from his view.

The Winslow family’s opulent mansion was now completely veiled under a thick mist.

A blood-colored mist.

Fu Qian didn’t believe this was the same mist spawned from the source of all evil during the earlier consultation, nor the one that Jane and her comrades had encountered when lost outside the city.

To his mind, if this exact phenomenon had appeared at that moment, Jane’s chances of ever making it home would have been virtually nil.

This wasn’t the sort of mist that was poisonous enough to corrode lungs with a single breath; on the contrary, Fu Qian was quite certain that while its smell was peculiar, it had no adverse effects on health.

What it truly targeted, however, was perception—its capacity for distortion was extraordinary.

Even someone like him, a Second-order Participant, was on the verge of being compressed entirely into blindness.

Had Jane and the others encountered such a phenomenon earlier, if not frightened to death, they would most certainly have become hopelessly lost, wandering aimlessly into nature’s embrace.

As a matter of fact, that seemed to be precisely what Jane was doing now.

In contrast to his deteriorating vision, his sense of perception seemed to remain mostly unaffected.

Fu Qian could clearly discern Jane’s misshapen, twisted body moving erratically yet remarkably swiftly as she darted toward the estate’s outskirts.

…

This was clearly a step beyond the typical Evil Omen.

Faced with this scene, Fu Qian made no hurried moves. He sighed inwardly and quietly recalled the entire layout of the structure.

As a professional guide, Fu Qian had always been cautious toward anything attempting to lead him.

Whether or not it worked was beside the point—even the omnipresent circumvention aura of that figure hidden behind the scenes would offer no reasons to spare him.

This blood mist, abruptly appearing as it had, was undoubtedly designed to keep him away from Miss Winslow.

Yet there was a glaringly direct question—against someone so blatantly “non-human,” what purpose would it serve to block only his eyesight?

The answer lay in that it equally obstructed perception. The images in his consciousness at the moment intrinsically belonged to that other “voice” of his.

The circumvention aura hadn’t spared him—it was operating at an unprecedented level of grandeur.

After all, simple imperative sentences held no weight against him; he could easily distinguish them and shut them out.

A fog that blocked not only perception but supplemented it with sensory “voices”—that was the true apex of misdirection.

Fu Qian was convinced that had he blindly followed any chosen direction, he would never have found his target.

There was a distinct sense of matching strength with strength here, which was precisely why he admired the sophistication… and even felt a faint sense of satisfaction.

The stronger such powers were, the more plausible his suspicions regarding the “eye” behind the scenes became.

…

All these thoughts and the predicaments they culminated in flashed through his mind in an instant.

Alongside, of course, his memory of the building’s structure.

The next moment, Fu Qian leapt lithely, landing with precision atop the flat roof of the mansion.

The building’s outer structure was just as much a part of its design.

And, as he expected, the mist here was denser than ever; visibility had all but vanished.

In Fu Qian’s estimation, the style of the figure pulling the strings was dripping with an unmistakable arrogance.

Even when faced with a threat like himself, the likelihood of them fleeing outright was exceedingly low.

Which made the reason for ascending clear—this was the highest vantage point of the entire mansion.

Beyond offering an expansive view, it even aligned with the artful tendencies of the target.

Not that he could see anything for now.

Even Jane’s position, as sensed through his awareness, had shifted abruptly to another direction.

This change partially confirmed his theories, though it also deepened the surreal nature of the situation.

Fu Qian found himself even more intrigued by the meeting to come.

Rather than groping his way along the rooftop in a game of hide-and-seek, he took a deep breath in the next instant.

Rip!

His finely tailored shirt met its demise once again, as blood and flesh at his chest pulled apart to form a ferocious maw that bit savagely into the blood mist before him.

In that moment, the sensory barrier enshrouding his being seemed to shudder.

The mist writhed, leaving a patch abruptly vacant before quickly refilling, making Fu Qian’s actions seem akin to futilely repairing the sea with stones. Yet he showed no hesitation as the fangs on his chest opened wide once more.

A reaction was all he needed.

This time he didn’t bite again but unleashed a ferocious pull, generating a whirlwind-like suction that stirred the blood mist into a chaotic storm.

Found you!

Maintaining the action for five full seconds, Fu Qian finally observed the mist’s form beginning to destabilize severely.

A foreign presence emerged within his perception, moving rapidly.

“Wait a moment, my friend!”

Finally acting, Fu Qian crossed the expanse in one step, his tone warm and lively as he called out.

The figure’s form entered his sight, and what he saw took Fu Qian by surprise.

Bat wings?

And those unmistakable red eyes.