Chapter 119: You’re a Saint
Hearing these three words, An Wujiu didn’t find them particularly surprising.
Taking a desperate gamble, repeating the same mistakes, self-destruction.
Although some of them had yet to happen, they seemed to fittingly describe his fate.
Wu You said indifferently, “It’s all fake, don’t believe it.”
Nan Shan echoed, “Yeah, if you don’t believe it, it won’t happen.”
While their companions seemed more concerned, An Wujiu just smiled lightly and didn’t express his thoughts.
The old woman then looked at Wu You and asked, “Honored priest, would you like to see your own divination result?”
Wu You, with a cold expression, didn’t want to speak. He had seen An Wujiu’s divination result and was unwilling to accept it; thus, he had no expectations for his own.
But the old woman asked out of formality. Even though Wu You didn’t respond, she still opened the stone cup facing Wu You and read out the prophecy inside.
“Salvation, cherished, time.”
The last word, “time,” didn’t immediately make sense to Wu You, but the first two words made him uncomfortable. “Salvation” likely represented his purpose in this world—to save that person who looked exactly like him but was a hundred times happier by providing his heart.
And the one being “cherished” was never him.
Seeing his face darken, An Wujiu gently patted Wu You’s head, then slid his hand down to rub Wu You’s ear, like a true older brother.
“What did you just tell me?”
Wu You mumbled, “Don’t believe it, it’s all fake.”
An Wujiu smiled. He didn’t mind, until only Shen Ti’s stone cup was left unopened.
The old woman told them that these were divine revelations, not her own fabrications. If they didn’t believe in the gods, it would bring them misfortune.
As she spoke, she tremblingly lifted the last stone cup.
An Wujiu saw it clearly; unlike theirs, the inside of this stone cup was completely blank, with no carvings, smooth as new.
“How strange, truly surprising,” the old woman exclaimed repeatedly, looking up at Shen Ti, “There’s nothing.”
Shen Ti tilted his head and said, “Really? It seems like this god isn’t very good.”
The old woman added, “No, that’s impossible. Here, only newborns and the departed would have a blank cup, as the gods deem it unnecessary to divine for these two types of people.”
Wu You chuckled, “Some people really are big babies.”
Shen Ti clicked his tongue and pinched the back of Wu You’s neck.
He didn’t feel anything about the old woman’s words; he knew he wasn’t human at all, so there was no need to mention being a newborn or a dead person.
Only An Wujiu stood frozen, speechless.
He thought at least Shen Ti’s current body was human—a living, breathing human like him.
Even if he noticed Shen Ti had no heartbeat, An Wujiu held onto a sliver of hope that things might be different when they returned to reality from the game.
But hearing her words, the powerful psychological suggestion made An Wujiu somewhat dubious. He didn’t know if Shen Ti truly existed or how long he could exist.
An Wujiu developed a paranoid idea. Even if Shen Ti was dead, just a lifeless body with no heartbeat, no breath, no warmth, or even being unable to speak, An Wujiu wanted to keep him by his side. He couldn’t lose Shen Ti.
He didn’t know why he had such a terrible thought. The next second, An Wujiu realized something.
“Let’s go to the next place,” Shen Ti said casually, turning his head to look at An Wujiu.
An Wujiu didn’t intend to leave just like that; he stared directly at the old woman.
“Have you ever divined your own fate?”
His deep black eyes gazed into the old woman’s wrinkled eyes, the look in them as calm and profound as a tranquil lake.
The old woman, who had been smiling all along, still smiled and shook her head at An Wujiu, “That’s not good; it’s against the will of the gods, my dear priest.”
An Wujiu continued to stare at her, his lips forming a straight line. His tone was very polite, but his words made one feel unconsciously commanded, “Let me divine for you, alright?”
Likewise, he didn’t give her a chance to refuse. He held the old woman’s dry, withered wrist, closed his eyes, and waited silently for a few seconds.
Wu You watched him, not knowing what An Wujiu was doing, but he couldn’t help holding his breath.
After a moment, An Wujiu slowly opened his eyes and spoke calmly, “Countless sacrifices.”
The old woman’s expression didn’t change; her withered face carried a faint smile.
“Arrogantly looking down.”
The tent was lifted by a cold wind, and a flash of snow light reflected in her eyes, fleeting.
An Wujiu released her hand and leaned in close to her ear, whispering the last word very softly.
Wu You didn’t hear what he said, but he keenly noticed a slight change in the old woman’s expression.
An Wujiu smiled, straightened up, bid her farewell, and left the tent with the other three.
The wind and snow wrapped around them with a biting chill. Wu You turned his head, not asking An Wujiu what he had said, but instead, “Do you believe what that old woman said?”
An Wujiu only told him, “Even if you think it’s very accurate, don’t believe a single word. It’s just her psychological suggestion.”
Wu You turned around and saw that the old woman was also trembling as she emerged from the cloak, watching them.
Her gaze gave Wu You a chill, so he turned his head back.
An Wujiu didn’t mention the last prophecy he gave the old woman, but Shen Ti could hear his thoughts, so he knew clearly.
As they walked side by side, Shen Ti told him, “I think she’s that guy too.”
An Wujiu looked at him, his eyes widening slightly.
“I heard it.” Shen Ti leaned close to An Wujiu’s ear and softly repeated the thought he had heard, “Return in defeat.”
Yes.
This was An Wujiu’s provocation to that evil god.
He knew the god was everywhere—possibly any passerby, perhaps the heavy statues on their shoulders, or the constantly falling snow here.
If he hid well enough, An Wujiu didn’t mind being watched. After all, he was already used to being monitored.
It was just that the god was too arrogant, too arrogant to hide that feeling of peering at ants, urgently jumping out to proclaim the pathetic fate of these ants.
“Wujiu-ge.”
A tender voice pulled him back from his thoughts. He looked up and saw Noah walking towards them in the distance, with Zhou Yijue behind her.
Noah’s face was red from the cold, her eyes as clear as the blue sky, doll-like.
Wu You, afraid that Zhou Yijue might bully her, pulled her over to his side and said, “I was just looking for you.”
“After coming out?” Noah smiled, looking up, “I got up early and came out to play in the snow by myself.”
Some people dressed in religious garments walked past them, holding a stack of dark-colored paper made from the peeled bark of fig trees, which was very precious and had some writing on it.
One of them stopped in front of them, distributing the bark paper one by one.
An Wujiu took one and looked at it carefully. The content was mostly religious, describing religious matters.
He pulled out a sheet and found it different from the ones he had just seen. This bark paper had a large blank space, with only some ancient text he couldn’t understand.
It seemed to be deliberately hiding something.
Just like the altar had delayed the morning sacrifice discussion for this day, An Wujiu didn’t believe it was just to let them participate in the grand celebration.
From a distance came the sound of orderly footsteps, like a well-trained army. An Wujiu looked towards the source of the sound and saw a crowd and a returning troop. The man at the forefront wore armor adorned with countless obsidians, a headdress with colorful feathers, and held a stone axe, looking imposing.
Behind him were two men, one draped in tiger skin and the other in leopard skin.
“That must be their leader,” Shen Ti said from the side.
An Wujiu nodded, “It looks like they just came back from a battle.”
They blew horns made of bones, and many people in the tents hurried out to greet them.
Wu You turned to Nan Shan and said, “You were right.”
Nan Shan was puzzled, “About what?”
“These people are really warlike.”
Nan Shan was surprised. When he and An Wujiu were talking about this by the stone sculpture, Wu You seemed to be playing around with Shen Ti, “I thought you weren’t listening.”
“I was listening,” Wu You said, “I might not look like I was paying attention, but I remember everything you said.” Then he took out a syringe from his pocket and said, “Here, this, you asked me to hold onto it for you. I’ve been carrying it with me, though it seems you haven’t had any episodes recently.”
Nan Shan was a bit surprised, “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me,” Wu You put the syringe back in his pocket, “It’s good you haven’t had any episodes; best if you fully recover.”
“Besides my foster father, no one has ever cared about me like this.”
Nan Shan’s sudden confession made Wu You blush a little.
He didn’t know what to say; his throat felt tight, “It’s just…holding your medicine for you.”
Nan Shan smiled at him, nodding slightly in acknowledgment, “Mm.”
Wu You quickly turned his face away, pretending to watch the leader and returning warriors being welcomed by the people.
Some of the warriors held hunted animals, like turkeys and wild boars, and some had pieces of already chopped meat, which they threw to the welcoming townspeople as if rewarding them.
The townspeople cheered, scrambling to catch the meat, their faces full of joy.
Meanwhile, singing could be heard from another direction, attracting many people’s attention. As they looked over, their expressions turned to great reverence, and they knelt down immediately.
An Wujiu was a bit curious, so he also looked towards the source of the singing.
He saw the largest stone statue he had seen so far.
This statue of the deity was a rare human figure, tall and strong, with a handsome appearance. The top of its head was the sun, and it held a weapon in its hand. Even the smallest details were carved vividly.
The townspeople lifting it were dressed lightly, their faces painted red and yellow, chanting something in unison. Every passing townsman kneeled before the stone deity, pressing their foreheads tightly to the cold snow and reciting prayers devoutly as if a god had descended before them.
They could faintly make out bits of what the townspeople were saying, like “You are flawless, the only god.”
Just that sentence brought back some unpleasant memories for An Wujiu.
He suddenly remembered being trapped in that small room, spending most of the 24 hours in long, painful solitude. Occasionally, those in protective suits would come in, pristinely approaching him.
At first, they always had a critical eye, especially during his adolescent growth phase. They would measure his data repeatedly, often disagreeing. Some thought he was too tall; others thought he needed to grow taller. They would discuss in front of him whether to perform surgery—to cut open his skin, take out his shinbone, and insert a metal prosthesis—to achieve the height they wanted.
What they disliked most was the tattoo that extended from the side of his neck to his chest. Yes, they initially thought it was a tattoo, so they tried to remove it with a laser, which didn’t work at all. So they cut off that skin and replaced it with smoother, flawless skin, but the day after the transplant, the peony patterns reappeared.
This vivid nightmare lingered in the minds of these perfectionists, so they modified it again and again, transplanting anew time after time.
Unfortunately, they never succeeded. They had no choice but to give up.
The stubborn flowers were like An Wujiu’s tenacious vitality, no matter how many times they were crushed, they always recovered beautifully.
Later on, they became more and more satisfied, especially with his naturally flawless face, the development of his brain, his physical responses, pain tolerance, and agility.
His spirit.
An Wujiu then realized why there were so many failed experimental subjects. Clearly, limb transplants were no big deal, enhancing human physical abilities was no longer rare, and even crushing every bone and reconstructing it shouldn’t have had a success rate of one in ten million.
Behind these vast failure statistics was merely a part of this revolutionary plan’s experimental system – mental transformation.
They believed that past humans, including themselves, were imperfect. Every person had an internal struggle between good and evil, with dark flaws within their shining humanity.
How could a true revolution stop at the physical level?
An extreme, utopian expectation drove them to urgently want to become creators of gods.
Time after time, nerve experiments, cutting and generating, training and opposing, very few living test subjects could withstand artificial modifications, removing what they considered the roots of malice in the brain, preserving the remnants of goodness, truth, and beauty.
Even fewer could endure endless electric shock experiments, punishing and suppressing all remaining evil with repeated neural pain.
[You are flawless.]
Their gaze towards him was always one of fanatical and pathological devotion, no different from these townspeople who worshipped their faith.
An Wujiu remembered it vividly.
[You are a saint.]
The most morally noble man-made deity.
So this was why he was different from others.
After all this time, he finally retrieved himself from the extreme split between good and evil, repairing the chasm and becoming a slightly more normal person. But it turned out what they wanted was extreme goodness—a flawless experimental result.
More and more disgusting memories emerged. He once thought his lost memories were clear spring water, but upon truly recalling, he found they were just oil-stained, dirty, and murky sewage, masquerading as clear springs, gushing out while An Wujiu was powerless to do anything but accept.
Shen Ti could hear it all.
The former him had witnessed it all too.
He turned his face and saw An Wujiu’s pupils filled with snow, and heard him speak, his voice dispersed by the cold wind, “Shen Ti, I remember now.”
“An Wujiu…”
He softly recited his own name, giving a faint smile as fleeting as melting snow under the scorching sun.
“A good name.”
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