บท 2: Chapter II: An Old-Fashioned Writer

A human being once said that there is always a world of difference between ideals and reality.

More than a thousand years have passed since my feet stepped on the ground, and the seventh deity has come to the throne. I watched my good friend, the one-of-a-kind Black Emperor, fall from the sky, and watched a glorious era be born in his hands. I watched as war swept across the land, and people struggled to survive in despair, leaving behind my favorite sights of desolation and decay. Then, in this peaceful age, I was sitting in a window seat at a cheap café in Becklund, waiting for the editorial staff to arrive.

Yes, I am an Angel. I am still working.

My job is to write plays and novels for theatres and magazines, and I work because I am short of money and bored. The purpose of proving one's demonic identity has been achieved, so the total destruction of the previous sect is not a big deal, and the sect I re-founded in the Fifth Age has grown savagely in the gap between war and peace, and it will undoubtedly require a lot of money. Since the death of Roselle Gustav, they have not had a lot of money in their hands for a long time. And my ally the True Creator is also very poor, and cults are always poor.

When my ally was sober, I asked, "Are all the evil gods so poor?"

"He" replied, a little melancholy, "That's right. The Second and Fourth Ages were passable, but since the Fifth Age, many ways of obtaining resources and money have been regulated, and funds have restricted the expansion of cults and believers."

At this time, I heard "his" followers praying, and thoughtfully relayed: "Your holiness your faithful believer has checked the funds and says that the event is not well funded and wants to seek your guidance."

"He" was silent for a moment, then spat out something like "soo! Fulfhglahtjf, jkhhfjlnlaohfdgsbdagqrfljhaski!", it seems that this time "He" has fallen into madness because of poverty, but the chaotic ravings is also mixed with Russian words such as "no money", "it's useless to look for me, to make money", so as to ignore the prayer and try to escape from reality.

It's miserable, how do the Rose Bishops make money, do they decide to use flesh and blood magic to perform in a circus. So, I kindly helped "him" and said, "I'll sponsor a small plantation."

"Alright" "He" replied without hesitation, then paused, and continued to murmur to cover up his egarness.

The person who seems to be the current best-selling novelist was arranged to me by the editorial department. I have met her once, her decadent and self-defeating appearance, and the soul that was once tainted with contraband can make me feel ecstatic, but the flaw in her character is that she is not really happy to be miserable, and there is a strong desire to survive hidden under the seemingly lifeless appearance, which is extremely annoying.

The wind chimes rang at the door, and I looked up to see the young woman with long brown hair and curly hair walking briskly and sitting across from me.

"Good afternoon, Miss Fors Wall."

As a polite gentleman, I got up and took the initiative to greet her: "Looks like you've brought enough interesting stories to tell."

She smiled tiredly when she heard this, and the dark circles under her eyes and the fact that she was late for more than half an hour exposed the fact that she was in a hurry. Miss Fors sat down, pulled out a thick piece of manuscript paper from her bag, and placed it on the table.

That's a lot. I glanced at the three-centimeter-thick paper, and although the information could be obtained in an instant, I had to pretend to read them word by word, not too fast, not too slow, and in the process of showing the posture of a human reading with various facial expressions. I hope this story is really interesting - I took it with a smile, pushed my glasses and began to look at it - I had to finish it quickly, and later today I will have to report to my crazy ally about "His" divine descent, and communicating with "him" often and wastes a lot of time listening to "him".

For this reason, "He" gave me a seal, both as a protection and as a symbol of alliance. It was a small positive cross, an object "He" had held when "He" was still "the Ancient Sun God", and it was effective against the effects of pollution and ravings, including all kinds of filthy spirituality.

It's an impeccable and perfect gift that can be ...

But I'm a demon.

At least I was a demon on the surface, giving me this seal, and letting me carry it with me is a bit....., and my first reaction after learning the news was "He doesn't trust me" and "He's testing my true intentions", and I was cautious about it for at least ten years, and then I confirmed through daily conversations that "He" didn't think about it at all, "He" just really didn't think about it that deep like I thought.

Hanging on my chest is too much like a clergyman, and I'm not a believer in "hanging people". In the end, I chose to make earrings with this little pure cross.

Fors Wall reached out and pressed her eyebrows, and her eyes hurt a little too. During the week-long deadline, she spent the first six days leisurely, at the cost of staying up almost all-night last night, and still writing until the first half hour of the arrival. Procrastination can't be cured, it is impossible to be cured in this life, and only by rushing to the deadline can the manuscript be submitted on time.

She yawned slightly, ready to catch up on sleep after a quick conversation and squinted her eyes to observe at her collaborator sitting across from her.

Mr. Edward Vaughn was a well-known writer in Becklund, often receiving commissions to write operas and occasional novellas. However, his works, which are mostly formal, with hidden tragedy and irony, were popular in the early years, and now people tend to yearn for light-hearted comic operas or more entertaining plays, and his audience is often just the same serious academic scholars and old-fashioned gentlemen.

I'm not sure I'm going to work with such an old-fashioned, uh no, serious senior... The female writer who is the best at catching people's attention with romance novels scratched her hair, alas, but this time the cooperation of the script pays well, and if it can be successfully completed, I can plan a New Year's trip plan for the end of this year, and maybe I can take Xio with me...

"Miss Wall."

The other party's soft call interrupted her thoughts.

"Miss Wall."

Fors was stunned for a moment, and looked up to find that the other party was staring at her. The eyes were jet black, with a faint glow behind the lenses, like a void, and the dark iris almost merged with the child's pupils, making it difficult to distinguish.

"Yes." She was a little anxious, "What's wrong?" "

"According to your plot, in a pair of lovers who love each other deeply, the male protagonist dies, and the female protagonist is very devastated and determined to avenge her lover." Mr. Edward lifted his glasses and spread a page of manuscript paper on the table, he read it very carefully, "But the poor heroine has limited abilities, and in the end, it was their friends who came to help, and the murderer was caught... Miss Wall, I remember that the editorial request was a comedy. "

"It's a comedy, indeed." Fors sat up straight with a slight embarrassment, "Isn't it comedy that friend caught the murderer with her help and got him the punishment he deserved?", she later hurriedly corrects herself. "Ah, I'm sorry, it's my first time in theater production, and I may not be able to understand what you meant..."

"Young lady, such an ending is not a comedy."

Mr. Edward Vaughan commented: "... Lack of tension, lack of explosiveness. If revenge is to be taken, why can't it be the poor lady the one to slash the enemy herself? She may be weak but not that weak. And the power of hatred and love will make her incomparably strong, and if she succeeds, everyone will applaud her beautiful appearance of bathing in the blood of her enemies and weep with joy. If she dies for it, it will be a moving tragedy. The victory of the weak over the strong and the revenge of justice is the favorite plot of most of the target audience. I believe you have watched "The Return of the Count", I like it very much, this famous play written by Roselle the Great. "

"You're right." Fors hurriedly agreed. "It was my first attempt at scripting, and I forgot the difference between a novel and a play, so I wasn't bold enough. I'll go back and make changes... Do you have any other suggestions? "

"No, miss. Your writing is excellent, it's just that the plot is dragging it down because of your cautious conservatism." The dark-brown-haired middle-aged gentleman had a gentle smile on his face, which made people involuntarily relax and want to get close, he sorted out the manuscript paper in its original form and handed it back to Fors Wall, "I am very much looking forward to the final result of my cooperation with you."

"If this script is successfully bought by the theater, I will get at least 30% of the proceedings, which is nearly 100 pounds! Great, it seems that this year's New Year's trip has been settled, not only can you take it with you, maybe you still have a balance! Of course, the most important thing is to hurry back to sleep—"and Fors was overjoyed, and immediately replied, "Thank you, Mr. Vaughan."

"You are the essence of Withering."

"You are the Great Being behind the Veil of Shadows;

you are the Monarch from the Deep Darkness."

In the cascade of prayers, one voice overpowered them all. Edward calmly stirred the coffee in his hand, added a sugar cube and a spoonful of milk, and raised it to his lips to take a sip. Pure black eyes look out at the street outside the glass wall, reflecting the passing crowd like a mirror. After Fors left, he stayed here and didn't leave, drinking coffee while enjoying the city scenery in the afternoon, waiting for the call of his ally.

"You are the Eye of the Living Decay,

the benevolent Edward Vaughn."

Edward looked sideways; his gaze reached far away to where the prayer had come from. An almost darkened room came into his line of sight, in the shadows, stood a man praying with his head down. Judging from his size, he is a man, and a long strand of hair slips from the corner of the hood that covers his face, and his face looks soft and bewitching, similar to a woman. This is an acquaintance, and there are many crazy believers under the ally, and he must be the one rank the highest.

Mr. A felt the gaze from afar, and continued to pray without changing his face: "... Your Highness, Your Highness the Angel of the Abyss, my Lord has just sent down an oracle, and the time has come, inviting you to speak to 'His' sanctuary."

Edward nodded and responded, "I see."

Extinguishing the image of the prayer, he silently recited the name of the True Creator in his mind, and then felt a loud and chaotic whisper in his ears, and a wisp of consciousness was pinpointed by the ally through the great distance, and then taken away.

When he opened his eyes again, he was already standing in the deepest shadowy kingdom, the squirming flesh and severed limbs on the floor beneath his feet, and here and there were fragmented human bodies and bones covered with corrosion marks.

On the peak of the distance stood an inverted cross higher than himself, and the evil god who was hanging upside down was covered in blood, and a blood-red vertical eye turned up and down for a few seconds, and then stared at her deadly.

"Good afternoon, my ally."

Edward was accustomed to this and used the black cane of unknown material in his hand to remove the bloody tentacles that tried to wrap around his legs and feet, still with a gentle smile on his face: "You look good today."

The voice of the True Creator rumbled, the flesh and blood knelt down, and the corpse trembled: "Love seed? What, ?? like? What??"

"It went very well." Edward spoke gently with a small smile.

"The seed has been planted, the mother's mood is stable, but the helper is being restless, and there are some traces of a twisted fate, and I will continue to keep an eye on it for you."

"Wait a minute, that's right." At the end of the detailed exchange of information, I said, "While you're in good shape, would you like to taste my new learned and baked cake?"

Hearing this, the True Creator's red eyes shook violently, and before I could say anything more, "he" threw me out along with the space where I was standing, and I didn't even have time to sell a few more words. What a good way to end the conversation, well I'll use it next time—I went back to the café and heard her rant coming intermittently from the sanctuary, echoing in my ears:

"No? Want?!"

"Unpalatable, ... You British! Difficult! To Eat, you eat it yourself!"

"You're welcome." I drank my cold coffee, got up to check out, and felt confident in my act of playing human.

[Original Author Tianxu's notes: (1) The script is a metaphor for Daly, but you can imagine what will happen. (2) Edward's cooking is delicious; however, it was made to be unpalatable in order to play the stereotypical "Englishman". It looks very scary to eat.

Karl the Translator's notes:

True Creator be like: Stop acting as a human and give me delicious food.]