Chapter 129: The Faintly Emerging Shackles of Fate

Amy Ulysses.

The name, spilled from the girl’s lips, caused the young man’s descending foot to hang suspended in mid-air. He turned his head stiffly, his gaze meeting eyes as dark and abyssal as black holes.

Caught.

As expected... he would have to die once more.

After the initial tension of having his identity exposed, the young Glory-Bearer quickly relaxed his mind. He had never intended to hide, and he had been prepared to die; it was only in the tumultuous process of reuniting with the little girl that he had forgotten his original purpose.

Careless.

Critiquing his own lack of composure, Amy regained his calm. "Is there something you need?"

"Amy Ulysses has run away. I cannot find him." Pandora tugged gently at his lapel, then looked up at him. The crystalline tears pooling in her eyes always touched the softest parts of one's heart, and her soft, milky voice seemed to knock on the doors of everyone's soul without warning. "Can you help me?"

"Uh..." The young man let out an indistinct sound. He was not blinded by her outward appearance; the reason he appeared so contemplative was largely because he had begun to doubt his previous judgment—had this tiny girl named Pandora really seen through his disguise, which could hardly be called a disguise at all?

Doubtful.

Although his eleven-year-old self differed significantly from his current self in height and weight, the changes in his features were far from drastic. Unless one were truly face-blind or blind, there should be no chance of misidentification.

It was just that... Pandora’s attitude toward him was worth pondering.

As a member of the Dark Sovereigns, who held absolute superiority in force, why did she not simply reveal his identity instead of playing house with him in this clumsy illusion?

It made no sense.

It was even more illogical.

Therefore, there must be something he had overlooked. Either there was something special about him that made it worth Pandora’s while to put aside her status and weave a clumsy lie, or... she was truly blind or suffering from memory loss and had failed to recognize him.

It was difficult to determine which situation was currently unfolding.

If so—

Do not rush. Take it slow.

With a resolution in his heart, Amy stopped musing and said in a calm tone, "I’m sorry, but I have never heard the name Amy Ulysses. Perhaps you should ask someone else."

He was testing her—testing Pandora's reaction.

"Someone else," the girl, who reached only to the eleven-year-old boy's stomach, looked around and gave a serious answer. "There is no one else here."

"No one else?" That was true. The people in the illusion were merely fabrications; in the higher-level perspective of the Dark Sovereigns, they perhaps could not be considered people. But... since Pandora knew this was nothing more than a clumsy illusion, why was she not on guard against him—a special, living human being?

Was there an ulterior motive?

The young Glory-Bearer narrowed his eyes. "Impossible. This is the Third Boulevard, one of the busiest sections of Hermetica—look, isn't that a young woman in uniform walking by? She is wearing the uniform of the Enforcement Squad. If you are looking for your mother, father, or siblings, you can report it to her. Perhaps she can provide some help."

"Just a false life within a dream," Pandora said, revealing the true nature of the people in the illusion without a hint of guile in front of the boy. "They are no different from marionettes on strings."

"A false life within a dream?" So this was a dream? Amy thought, his doubts increasing rather than decreasing. If this truly was a dream, then whose dream was it? Why would he, or she, or He, or It dream of the old scenery of Hermetica? And why construct it with such realism and detail?

"If they are false, then what am I?"

At the same time, the Glory-Bearer did not forget to hide his identity, feigning a look of shock and uncertainty before extending a trembling right hand to point at himself.

"You are... human." Saying this, the girl blinked as if she had suddenly remembered something, then leaned closer, her small, fair nostrils twitching slightly. "Strange. Just like the person who calls himself Amy Ulysses; although I cannot perceive his existence, I can see his form, hear his voice, smell his scent, and touch his body."

"You cannot perceive my existence? How is that possible?" Amy raised an eyebrow. This was indeed a crucial piece of information, though it did not rule out the possibility that Pandora was lying. "Able to see, hear, touch, and smell—how can you not perceive my existence?"

He deliberately confused the concepts of perception and sensory awareness.

The perception of a Glory-Bearer was different from that of an ordinary person. Beyond the basic five senses, they often possessed abilities beyond the norm. For example, he could obtain glimpses of the future through the Omen of Death; Yulia could see the underlying laws of the world through the Eye of Truth; and Edgar, as well as past High Priests, could sense the proximity of the Scions of Glory within a certain range.

Pandora might have a similar, distinct, and superior method of perception.

But so what? He did not need to accommodate his enemy; all he had to do was use the conversation to extract information from this girl who was so perfect she didn't seem human.

"It is very strange." As if talking to herself, or perhaps answering the question Amy had posed earlier, Pandora suddenly said.

"What is strange?" the boy pressed.

"It is a bit too calm," the little girl shook her head, not continuing the previous topic. "After losing the checks and balances of the First Flame, Cthulhu, who lies in deep slumber beneath Hermetica, should have entered a period of restlessness before waking. His unconscious murmurs and ravings should have erupted mercilessly, swallowing all of Hermetica into eternal darkness—but now, his dream is far too calm. There is no sign at all that he is about to wake."

Cthulhu...

Amy had an impression of the name. After being bisected by Pandora, he had fallen into a strange, dark dream where he had seen a string of characters he did not recognize but could nonetheless read. Then, upon reading them, he had been dragged into a bizarre world by the terrible monster slumbering behind the Seal Gate.

And the reason he had fallen into this trap was the very incantation he had deciphered:

"In the eternal mansion of R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming—"

Wait, waits dreaming?

The boy vaguely grasped the essence of this illusion—it was the dream of the endlessly slumbering Cthulhu. This terrifying existence, suppressed beneath Hermetica for ages, possessed not only the great power to create countless bubble worlds but was also an ancient evil dating back to the prehistoric eras. It fit the criteria of a potential dream-maker perfectly.

But could it really be Him?

The young Glory-Bearer remained noncommittal, for this question was not important at all. Whether it was or was not, it did not change the situation. What he needed was a way to leave, not some hazy, ambiguous "truth."

But come to think of it, it was surprising that such an unfathomable monster could potentially destroy Hermetica even during an unconscious, restless period.

What was even more surprising was that he had possessed the power to severely wound it.

Under normal circumstances, he couldn't even defeat an ordinary Dark Sovereign. Yet, when forced into a corner, he had leaped across unknown magnitudes, wielding a terrifying power that caused his heart to palpitate even in retrospect. With an transcendent gesture of self-immolation, he had severely wounded that ancient evil known as Cthulhu—even if it was still in an incomplete state while sealed, and even if he had offered everything he could burn as firewood. The entire process and its result felt as unreal as a dream.

Although, in a sense, he was indeed dreaming...

But how should he put it? Everything had come too easily, and too coincidentally.

Although he did not know the origins of this Cthulhu, whether it was the apocalyptic scroll from the Omen of Death—where its mere existence destroyed Hermetica—or the layers of seals placed by the ancestors who pioneered the realm of order, it was not hard to infer that it, or He, was a great existence beyond human comprehension.

Yet, it had been severely wounded by him.

Because of some unknown reason, he had appeared in the Upper District, happened to be at the Temple of Hephaestus, just happened to run into the Dark Sovereigns who were there to extinguish the fire, and so naturally inherited the First Flame. Then, left with no other choice, he was forced into the resting place of Cthulhu, where he—like the protagonist of a third-rate knight story—sacrificed himself to light the flame and severely wound the sealed chaotic evil once again.

It was as if there were an invisible hand pushing him from behind; everything was too clichéd.

What made him most suspicious was the abnormality of the First Flame and the short sword *Darkblood* during that battle. If the previous events could be explained or dismissed as mere coincidences, the encounter and battle with Cthulhu were filled with clouds of doubt. Not to mention why he had fallen into a dream after being bisected, or how he could effortlessly read those unknown characters—the mere fact that he had achieved final victory through the resolve to sacrifice himself felt ridiculous.

If the resolve to sacrifice could save the world, then the dark era would have ended hundreds of years ago.

After all... the world had never lacked noble people willing to sacrifice themselves.

Unfortunately, reality was not like that. It was cold, cruel, and never romantic. Burning the blood of glory as fuel could indeed trade for considerable power, but... no matter how firm the will, no matter how noble the spirit, no matter how thorough the self-sacrifice, the small essence of humanity dictated that one could never, ever defeat that nameless thing flowing from chaos on one's own.

The rungs on the Tree of Life determined the essential gap between them.

Therefore, he felt uneasy.

Once again, he felt uneasy about the shackles that fate had placed upon him.