Endless Debt-Chapter 792 - 253: Dice
Bologue couldn’t stare at the blinding light for too long, even though what he faced was Belphegor’s account, this endless light still blinded Bologue’s eyes. It took him some time to heal, and when he regained his vision, everything had ended.
The entire battlefield was just as he remembered, with towering gray-white salt pillars everywhere, the ground dry and cracked, stained with an eerie crimson. As for the Holy City, it had vanished, replaced by a terrifying scar across the land.
Bologue did not appear overly shocked; he’d already known this part of the information from a conversation with Nesanel.
King Solomon was also the Chosen One of the Devil; he created a force known as the "Red Dragon" that could end conflicts. Through his talks with Belphegor, these pieces of information matched one by one.
The Devils fear human progression; this advancement didn’t exist in the future but had been achieved long ago in the past.
Red Dragon.
The Devils fear the birth of another Red Dragon, yet desire such power to win their conflicts.
Belphegor snapped his fingers, causing all the light and shadows to disperse. Bologue felt his body sink, uncontrollably sitting down, the chair catching him steadily, and after the dimness, he found himself back in the cinema.
The screen displayed the scene after the destruction by light, which seemed frozen, with no movements apart from the rising thick smoke.
Bologue asked, "Was I recorded during the time I became a Debtor?"
"It should have been recorded."
Belphegor looked troubled and then said, "So what’s the cost?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"I haven’t decided yet."
"I thought you’d ask me to help you win Ewen’s soul."
Belphegor laughed at this, "If Ewen surrendered so easily, he’d become worthless."
Bologue was puzzled, "You Devils are really strange, wanting his soul yet fearing he’d surrender so easily."
"The more he resists fate, the more valuable he is; my anticipation for Ewen’s breakdown and my hope that he endures longer are not contradictory."
Belphegor then looked at Bologue, "I also anticipate the day you collapse; I will certainly offer a good price for the last of your soul."
"So, will you agree?"
Belphegor extended his hand, "Want to see yourself at that time? Haven’t you always been curious? Now the answer is within reach."
Bologue took a deep look at Belphegor, showing a disdainful smile, "No, I will find the answer myself."
"I like your stubbornness."
Bologue stood up, unwilling to get entangled with Belphegor any longer. He did get some information from this Devil’s mouth, confirming another part, but now his patience was exhausted, and he just wanted to leave quickly.
The bet between Asmodeus and Belphegor was not over yet, and Ewen was still in danger. For whatever reason, Bologue felt he should help Ewen to thwart the Devils’ plots.
The ongoing battle between the Unfettered Poetry Society and the Zongge Orchestra aligns with human, with the Order Bureau’s interests; their alliance was precisely what Bologue least wanted to see.
"Are you leaving?"
Seeing Bologue heading towards the door, Belphegor shouted, "A final piece of advice!"
Bologue’s figure paused slightly, not waiting to turn around, and Belphegor spoke with a playful tone.
"Bologue, do you really think this game is over?"
As Bologue turned around, the lights flickered, and as darkness gradually gave way to light, he found himself back in a familiar corridor. Belphegor and his eerie cinema were gone, leaving Bologue standing there alone.
An eerie and absurd thought arose in Bologue’s mind.
Just how many dice had Ewen thrown?
...
A chill invaded his body, fatigue and drowsiness affecting his spirit. Ewen turned over, wrapping the blanket over his head more tightly, like hiding in a shroud.
Strange, bizarre images floated in his mind. He dreamt of a rumbling train, a bloodthirsty, frenzied monster, the vast blue ocean, and a woman unveiling her deceitful mask amidst the whale song.
Ewen awoke from his dream, his eyes snapping open, the chill coursing through him becoming strikingly clear, seeping into his bones.
His muddled consciousness paused for a moment before memories surged through his mind like a tidal wave, realizing it wasn’t a dream but something that had happened before.
After thirty-three years of pursuit, Ewen found himself back on that train, but waiting there was not the familiar figure in his memory, but a Devil of delight.
Ewen sat up from the ground, leaning against the bookshelf. He remembered wishing to escape that game, and upon opening his eyes, everything was as he wished; he returned to Daisy Castle, to the familiar grand library.
The crisis that had been chasing after him finally dissipated, and his highly concentrated spirit and tense nerves were relaxed at this moment, leaving Ewen feeling like a collapsed being, slumped on the ground.
At that moment, he finally had time to sort through his emotions. Complex, indescribable emotions rose within him. He felt he might be sad, or perhaps disappointed... Even after so many years, it was the first time he experienced such feelings.
Ewen warned himself that he had long been prepared for this, regardless of the outcome, but when it all ended, Ewen still found it somewhat unbearable.
This was not a good result, but he had to accept it, for it was a fact that could not be disputed or rejected.
He tried to clear his mind and stood up shakily. It seemed others had returned to their homes too. Based on Bologue and the others’ personalities, they might have been ready by now, preparing to find him.
Ewen had heard from Nolen about the Order Bureau’s style of working; they wouldn’t easily let someone like him, who knew of the Extraordinary World, go, let alone him planning to turn all of this into a book.
But Ewen felt Bologue and the others wouldn’t harm him; it was more like the endless review standards of an editor, allowing his book to be published only after meeting them.
Ewen walked to his work desk, trying to think of random things to avoid thinking about Asmodeus, Cinderella, and...and...
"Damn it!"
Ewen slammed his fist onto the desk. No one could maintain their rationality all the time. At this moment, even Ewen could not bear it, and chose to release his emotions.
The rising emotions came quickly and disappeared just as fast; Ewen might have been too exhausted that even his anger and sorrow lacked energy.
Ewen noticed a pile of manuscripts beside the desk, picking them up to see that they were records he had written during the game in the Joyful Garden.
These pages proved the reality of the Joyful Garden. Ewen stared fixedly at the pages, then inserted blank pages into his typewriter with his original draft.
Due to his isolated life, Ewen rarely experienced intense emotional fluctuations, and when such fluctuations occurred, he often chose to numb himself with work.
His new book was not yet nearing perfection, Ewen couldn’t stop. Pouring all his emotions into typing, fresh characters stamped on the blank pages one by one.
Ewen slightly modified the stories he experienced according to the worldview he created in his book. He was skilled at this, like telling lies, slightly altering details to change the story completely.
"In the tale of the ’Night Hunter,’ everything has always been real, and I have merely documented it as such.
Under the power of the King of Demons, I and other Hunters were swept into a phantasmal game. In that game, I met her once more; she was as splendid as I remembered..."
Ewen typed tirelessly, his fingernails cracking from fatigue and exertion, with blood flowing along his fingertips and seeping into the typewriter. The printed inked characters quickly took on a reddish tint, all unnoticed by Ewen.
He seemed enchanted, with only his story left in his eyes until a familiar laugh echoed.
Ewen turned abruptly, seeing nothing, then he noticed something newly apparent in his vision—a page of his original draft slightly lifted, suppressing something underneath. Ewen lifted the page to find a familiar twelve-sided die quietly lying there.
Time seemed to freeze, Ewen murmuring incomprehensible words, then with a ghostly impetus, he grabbed the die, and as if his hand had lost control, all strength drained away, the die slipped from his grasp halfway up.
With a jingling sound, the twelve-sided die rolled a few times, coming to a quiet rest in a shadowed corner.
