"The only redemption…" The priest, in his fading consciousness, caught these words, lifting his head as if in a final surge of clarity.
"Yes, redemption!" Cheek affirmed.
After becoming a Beyonder, he had faced several crises of losing control, but the cake and a dark robe had kept him safe.
The sensation of glimpsing paradise, beholding the Dream, then plummeting back to earth was so intense it seared into Cheek's memory.
It surpassed any prayer to a deity, even to the Angel of Dreams, by countless magnitudes!
It was true redemptive power, not the cold words recorded in sacred texts.
Those near-loss-of-control experiences convinced him that the angel who granted him these items was surely the redemption of this mad world!
The priest, straining to keep his eyes open, vaguely saw the sickly possessiveness on Cheek's face.
"You… this is blasphemy!" The priest's eyes widened sharply.
"God saves the world, so why not me?!" Cheek's expression turned strange, then relaxed.
"We worship the Lord not for favor, but for our own peace!" The priest roared with his last strength.
"I can't find peace. I need the Dream's redemption."
Cheek's expression turned devout, yet increasingly perverse.
He carefully stored the cake, then gazed indifferently at the priest, letting his blood drain away.
After a considerable time, a fist-sized characteristic appeared beside the priest's corpse.
"This world is just one eating another."
Though only Sequence 8, Cheek's understanding of the world's essence was profound.
A single observation while slaying a monster had taught him much, and he had exceptional talent in acting his sequence's role.
He collected the characteristic and began praying beside the corpse.
"True One, Pure Spirit… I beseech Your gaze, I beseech Your miracles…"
Cheek prayed as always, dozens of times daily, arguably the most devout follower of the Dream.
Yet such prayers couldn't pass the Dream statue's filter to reach Truman's ears.
While Truman cared little for his followers' faith, requiring only their "anchor," receiving the Dream's blessings demanded true devotion.
Cheek's prayers, laden with ulterior motives and a touch of… perversion, were automatically filtered by the Dream statue, leaving no trace.
"Has the Dream forsaken me?"
After waiting long without a response, Cheek felt a profound loss.
"Then I'll go to Him myself!"
Cheek seemed to resolve something. He gathered the materials for the formula, took out a stone jar, and began preparing the potion per the recipe.
His face contorted, hands trembling, yet his resolve held firm.
Soon, the potion was complete.
"How far must I go to reach the angel?"
"If I become a 'Witch,' could I…?"
Cheek's throat tightened, his sense of self teetering under the impact, but he ultimately drank the potion in one gulp.
…
The elf hunt in Dreamsea City the next day succeeded. With several Beyonders' cooperation, they killed a Sequence 7 "Storm Priest," seizing its characteristic.
But the consequences far exceeded Cheek's plans.
The elf clan targeted Dreamsea City, and the church, to protect it, sent a surge of Beyonders.
This was the start of a disaster, a war's prelude.
Of course, these were trivial matters, beneath Truman's notice. He was orchestrating far grander affairs.
With the *Pen of Alesouhod* in hand, Sasrir had delegated many tasks to him.
His most pressing task was crafting short stories to drag the major Beyonder races back into the quagmire of war.
He'd done this once before, but without the demons' madness, it was slightly more complex.
"No way! I'm sick of writing!" This story was more intricate, with tangled relationships among races, making it excruciating.
To ensure certain events unfolded smoothly, he was practically writing a true history book.
Thousands of words daily—what kind of life was that?
Truman only had a pen, not the soul of a "Writer."
"How about I recommend an apprentice?" Sasrir suggested after a moment. "He'll help you finish the stories."
"What? An apprentice?" Truman was stunned. He was just venting and slacking off—who stays chipper as a worker?
Sasrir's suggestion caught him off guard.
"Me, take an apprentice? What's your game?" Truman blinked, wary.
"I recently found a young man with great potential. The Lord holds him in high esteem, even granting him a surname."
Truman's eyebrow twitched, sensing something.
"Abraham," Sasrir said solemnly.
This surname carried lofty, sacred connotations.
Being granted it by the Ancient Sun God was an immense honor.
"Abraham…" Truman was stunned, yet it felt fitting.
"He's an 'Apprentice.' I hope you'll be his teacher," Sasrir said earnestly.
"Have you been setting me up for this?" Truman's mouth twitched, feeling played.
"I hope he can receive the Dream's protection," Sasrir said directly.
"Abraham…" Truman pondered briefly, then agreed. Such an apprentice seemed promising.
"Fine," Truman nodded. This was someone truly worthy of the "Abraham" surname.
Soon, a young man appeared before them.
His face was nearly expressionless, almost cold, with blue eyes exuding an aloof clarity.
He bowed meticulously to Sasrir before lifting his gaze to Truman.
"Your Highness Dream… please accept Bethel's reverence…"
Seeing Truman, the young man realized something, a flicker of excitement breaking through his stoic, rigid demeanor.
In the Creator's divine kingdom, Truman's status was unique. His territory's subjects could worship only the Dream—a privilege no other angel had.
"He is Bethel Abraham," Sasrir said to Truman.
Truman studied the youth closely. Still an "Apprentice," just starting his sequence, but his future was destined to be brilliant.
"I'll be your teacher from now on, and you're my first student," Truman said with equal gravity.
"Student pays respects to Teacher!" Bethel knelt, prostrating himself—a gesture reserved for parents in his home city-state.
Truman sensed genuine sincerity and nodded, satisfied.
The kid's a bit stone-faced, but his heart's lively. Worth nurturing!
(End of Chapter)
Translator's Note: Truman protect your PURITY.