The End
Chapter 721: Atonement
In the sky, eyeballs—some towering like skyscrapers, others as tiny as pinpricks—swarmed together. They were the ever-operating cameras facilitating this fatal live broadcast.
Forever looking down, peeping, supervising, and observing everything.
Around the auction block, red lights flickered on one after another. Swaying behind the heavy curtains, they cast a dim, eerie glow.
“…”
Staring at this scene, Wen Jianyan only felt a deep chill.
A sharp, monotonous, and incessant buzzing rang in his ears, shrieking as if it would never end.
Even though he was separated from that world by a layer of curtain and wasn’t exposed to the red light, he felt absolutely zero sense of security.
Looking back, it was such a flawlessly designed process—
First, strip away the world’s guardian deity. Then, using it as fuel and motive power, slowly erode and devour everything within that world.
That was why its vessel was a “ship.”
After sucking the marrow from the world’s bones, packaging it up for sale, and draining every last drop of its value, it could simply turn around and sail away toward the next brand-new, unexploited world.
This was the true meaning behind the phrase: “Arrive through this, depart through this.”
“Hey… Hey!”
Figaro’s voice cut faintly through the ringing in his ears. For some reason, his tone carried an inexplicable hint of… tension?
Moving half a beat slow, Wen Jianyan turned his head.
Figaro had his head turned, staring fixedly in the direction they had come from. The lighting was dim, but it couldn’t conceal his taut expression:
“Look back. Are my eyes playing tricks on me?”
“The others… they’re gone.”
Startled, Wen Jianyan followed Figaro’s gaze. Just one look was enough to make his breath catch in his throat.
…Figaro wasn’t being an alarmist.
Although the auction house was divided into a front stage and a backstage, the actual distance between them wasn’t far enough to lose sight of one another. Yet now, the area behind them was nothing but dark chaos. Blurred silhouettes rose and fell, but not a single human figure could be seen—only flickering, ghostly shadows remained.
Where was everyone?
Wen Jianyan’s blood ran cold. A shiver crept up his spine.
In just a few short seconds, countless thoughts flashed through his mind one after another—each more terrifying and darker than the last.
He grabbed his own wrist, his fingertips rubbing against the skin.
A very faint, shallow layer of darkness still lingered there; it hadn’t vanished—Wu Zhu’s power was still present.
The moment he realized this, Wen Jianyan’s racing heart settled slightly.
He turned his head, casting one final glance toward the blood-red world not far away.
“Let’s go,” he said, taking a deep breath.
Discovering Nightmare’s true colors was a good thing.
But it was of little practical use.
Wen Jianyan knew full well that this revelation offered little help to their current predicament. Its only real function was to give him a much clearer picture of the terrifying abyss they were facing, and just how desperate their situation truly was.
The two of them quickly retraced their steps.
However, what greeted them was the last thing they wanted to see.
…The area was completely empty.
Residual bloodstains on the floor, messy footprints, the faint smell of smoke lingering in the air—every clue proved that the group had indeed stayed here briefly. Yet, there were no tracks indicating they had left.
So, where did everyone go?
Out of everyone in their group, not a single one would leave without telling him. In other words, something must have happened here, or they had been ambushed. But…
Wen Jianyan could hear his own heartbeat thumping frantically in his ears as the sense of unease grew stronger by the second.
He turned to Figaro:
“You—”
Before he could even finish the word, he suddenly felt the ground beneath his feet give way.
The once solid floor instantly morphed into a blood-red quagmire, dragging his body downward like a whirlpool!
“?!”
Horrified, Wen Jianyan reflexively began to struggle. Suddenly, a thought flashed through his mind like lightning—so fast it was almost impossible to catch.
He forced himself to freeze mid-action.
Not far away, Figaro was also sinking into the mire. But unlike Wen Jianyan, he possessed more than enough power to fight back. Almost the moment he was trapped, a snow-white scimitar materialized in his palm. Just as he was about to swing it, Wen Jianyan’s sharp shout rang in his ears.
“Stop!”
…What?
Stunned, Figaro turned to look, locking gazes with the other man. In the darkness, Wen Jianyan’s eyes were piercingly calm, carrying a commanding presence that made it impossible to refuse.
“Don’t struggle!”
“…”
Figaro stared at Wen Jianyan. A flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes before he took a deep breath.
The scimitar vanished from his palm.
The rate of their descent was astonishingly fast. In the blink of an eye, the wet, squishy ground rose past their feet, swallowing them whole in a matter of seconds. It was pitch black all around; nothing could be seen clearly.
Below their feet and all around them, everything felt wet and spongy, as if they had been swallowed into the fleshy belly of some living entity.
Wen Jianyan closed his eyes, his fingers curling into tight fists. Forcing himself not to retaliate, he began to count silently in his head.
1, 2, 3…
When he reached 15, the pressure around his body suddenly gave way, and the enclosing environment receded.
Wen Jianyan drew in a sharp breath and opened his eyes.
Complete darkness surrounded him.
Aside from the sound of his own ragged breathing and pounding heart, nothing else existed.
As he fell through the weightless void, a pair of arms caught him securely.
“?!” His body tensed for a split second before immediately relaxing.
“It’s me,” Wu Zhu’s deep voice murmured in his ear.
“…I know,” Wen Jianyan panted.
The familiar aura, the familiar body temperature—even if the man hadn’t spoken, he would have recognized him.
“Where is this?” he asked, using Wu Zhu’s support to steady his footing. “Where are the others?”
Wu Zhu: “They’re all here.”
“As for your first question…”
He paused, then said, “Someone else will tell you.”
As Wu Zhu’s voice faded, another voice echoed from nearby. It was a voice that was incredibly familiar, yet incredibly foreign—just as gentle and scholarly as he remembered.
“We are deep inside the ship’s hull.”
“?!”
Wen Jianyan’s pupils contracted. He whipped his head around, looking toward the source of the voice.
However, he was met with nothing but pitch-black darkness. No matter how hard he strained his eyes, he couldn’t locate the speaker.
He opened his mouth, squeezing a faint, almost disbelieving sound from his throat as he called out the person’s name:
“……Su Cheng?”
“Is that you?”
A brief silence fell over the surroundings.
But soon, the voice of the deceased rang in his ears once more.
So clear, so real, without a hint of falsehood.
“Yeah.”
The Tarot Reader’s voice carried a smile, just as peaceful and warm as it had always been: “President, it’s been a while.”
“Su Cheng… Su Cheng?”
Although Wen Ya had arrived here a minute earlier than Wen Jianyan, she still hadn’t seemed to recover from the shock. She murmured, “Is it really you?”
“I thought— I thought—”
In an instant, a wave of intense grief surged up like a tide, choking her throat and making her unable to continue.
“Wu… woo…” In the darkness, Yang Fan sobbed. “As long as you’re alive, as long as you’re alive—”
“But… how is that possible…?”
Chen Cheng lifted his head, looking toward a corner of the darkness.
After all, not only had he witnessed the man’s death with his own eyes, but he had also seen and touched his cold, lifeless corpse.
His expression was filled with confusion as he asked, “How did you survive at Dan Zhu’s hands?”
Su Cheng paused. “I didn’t survive.”
“At that time, I truly, undeniably died.”
Dan Zhu had personally stripped away his flesh and blood to ensure his death.
If he hadn’t died, Dan Zhu could never have truly become the sole Captain, and they would have had absolutely zero chance of defeating her.
“Then,” Hugo asked, “what happened?”
“‘The Lucky Cruise Ship must always have a Captain.'”
A voice rang out abruptly from behind.
It was Wen Jianyan.
He closed his eyes, his voice so light it was barely more than a sigh. “…Right?”
A long silence was his only answer.
Finally, Su Cheng’s voice spoke again, sounding almost helpless. “Yeah. I really can’t hide anything from you, can I?”
Dan Zhu’s death had been absolute. This wasn’t just because her connection to the cruise ship was so tight, but also because the one who killed her was Chen Cheng. His Talent broke all the rules; his indiscriminate destruction induced a conceptual death.
However, the normal operation of the cruise ship required a Captain to maintain it.
That rule had never changed.
Yet, after Dan Zhu’s death, the cruise ship didn’t collapse like other instances would have. Instead, after a brief tremor, it stabilized.
There was only one possible explanation for this:
A new Captain had been born.
And Su Cheng was that new Captain.
“Wait, if you had already resurrected back then, why didn’t you come find us earlier?”
Suddenly, Wen Ya realized something.
She raised her head, frowning into the darkness as an ominous premonition swelled in the pit of her stomach.
“What exactly is going on?” The anxiety ballooned, clogging her throat and making it hard to breathe. “What are you hiding?”
The surroundings were too dark—so dark that no one could see a thing. Standing in it, one couldn’t even be sure if their eyes were open or closed.
“—Where are you?!”
With a soft sigh, the surrounding darkness slowly began to dissipate.
Under a faint, hazy light, Su Cheng gradually materialized before them.
The countless wounds left by the piercing thorns were completely gone. He looked whole and healthy, exactly as they remembered him.
His mid-length black hair was tied back, and his dark eyes were bottomless.
He looked at Wen Ya, his expression tinged with sorrow.
Pale-faced, Wen Ya slowly took a step forward and reached out her hand.
Her fingertips touched Su Cheng’s arm—and then passed right through, as if she had swiped at thin air.
“…No.” Ji Guan stared at him, his pupils trembling in horror and despair. He murmured, repeating, “No.”
Behind Su Cheng’s phantom illusion was a massive, pitch-black culture tank.
Liquid churned within it.
Suspended inside was a human brain.
Right before she had killed Su Cheng—who had willingly revealed himself just to die—Dan Zhu had curiously pressed him with a question.
—“Why are you doing this?”
The Tarot Reader had replied:
—“Atonement.”
This time.
He had done it.
In the most tragic and horrific way possible, he had bound himself to the Lucky Cruise Ship for eternity.
