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... adorned with a brass skull ornament and a tattered hemp cloak that hid most of her body, her face indistinct.

When she first rushed out, her eyes were as cold as knives.

However, the moment she caught sight of the open door behind Leonard Churchill from the corner of her eye, the murderous intent in her eyes instantly faded, and she blurted out in surprise, "You haven't died yet?"

...

Her voice was deliberately kept low, but it was clear that she was young.

< ...

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“The more the Church supports me, the more it proves I have done the right thing. The more the heretics oppose me, the more it proves I have done the right thing.” “Even when heretics praise me, it further proves I’m right. If heretics stay silent, it shows I have done impeccably!” “If the Church opposes me, it means they have all fallen into evil heresy, and the more heretics oppose me, the more it proves I have done the right thing.” In the year 681, An Su was crowned the youngest Pope in the history of the Church. During his speech, he provided important guidance for the forthcoming de-divination work, emphasizing: “Now that both the Church and the heretics oppose me, it precisely shows I am on an exceedingly correct path!” ... The year 685. “It is not that the Evil God cannot be summoned, but that choosing him to take the stage is more cost-effective.” Such was the assessment of the former holy woman of the demons, Yage Silvia. This statement, once made, instantly attracted attention from all sectors of society—the extensive documentary “The Legend of Pope An Su” continues to broadcast for you.

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“Coming live to you, from Cerou Street, this is MBP News, and we have an unfolding situation to report. Late last night, at approximately 3:00 AM, an explosive-like sound reverberated through this area, disrupting the sleep of residents and instilling fear in their hearts,” the news anchor, a striking figure, delivered the report with poise, standing before the camera amidst a bustling scene.

In the background, the blaring horns of ambulances and police vehicles disturbed the serenity of the beautiful morning light. Two individuals wearing protective suits, presumably forensic experts, held a stretcher carrying a charred body.

The news anchor, who had been reporting earlier, placed a hand on her ear, fitted with an earpiece, and looked visibly surprised. Her voice filled with urgency as she continued, “We have just received an update from our headquarters regarding the sole fatality in this unexpected incident. The victim of this tragic event is none other than Norman, the famous gigolo of Night palace.”

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*ZZZr Zzrz Zzrzzr* However, an additional source disturbed his sleep, filling the room with a buzzing sound. The boy furrowed his brows in annoyance, his eyes still closed. He searched his surroundings and discovered a glass-like slab. With closed eyes, he slid his finger across it and placed it near his ear.

“Hello...” he mumbled in his drowsy voice, which carried a hint of depth.

“Hey, Pissed-up Prat, where are you?” a voice laced with disdain emanated from the slab.

The boy, referred to as the “Pissed-up Prat” by the irritating female voice, recognized it as a voice he heard frequently but couldn't recall its owner. With his eyes still closed, he inquired, “Who is this?”

“What do you mean, 'who is this'? Wake up, come home, or eat shit for breakfast if you prefer!” the voice behind the transparent slab retorted before falling silent.

The boy, still not fully awakened, gazed at the half-opened glass slab with a mixture of confusion and surprise. As his eyes darted around the room, he became increasingly shocked.

As he recollected the fragmented memories from the night before he lost consciousness, his gaze fell upon the entrance of the shop. Once old and damp, it now bore a different appearance. While not transformed into a luxurious space, it had undergone improvements compared to its previously dilapidated state.

The shop took on a rectangular shape, with one longer side adorned with wooden shelves intricately patterned. Rows of empty glass jars lined these shelves. On the opposite side, there was another wooden shelf, also displaying empty jars. Towards the beginning of the counter, where the boy had been sleeping, there stood a peculiar machine.

Confusion etched across his face, he murmured to himself, “Whose shop is this?”

In response to his question, a mechanical voice resonated in his mind.

[The Omnistore belongs to you, host.]

……………………………………………………………

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