Schiller regretted it. He really should not have looked.
Nyarlathotep had kept hinting that he should read this novel, and Schiller had felt that something was off. At the time, he had assumed Nyarlathotep had tampered with the book somehow, that a single glance would drain all his Mental Health Value or something.
Schiller had thought Nyarlathotep would not resort to such a crude tactic. As Constantine had said, whenever Nyarlathotep toyed with humans, he followed a subtle pattern of echoes, full of black humor.
He rarely crammed a massive amount of knowledge directly into someone's head and blew their brain apart like other Outer Gods did. The only avatar that attacked indiscriminately, the Nightgaunt, had extremely strict summoning conditions. Setting aside how difficult it was to find the Tri-Eight-Sided Elixir, how many places in this world could be completely devoid of light?
That proved Nyarlathotep was not the physical-damage type at all. What he excelled at was psychological attacks.
Wonderful, he had succeeded. Schiller thought. He had successfully used this piece of garbage Constantine wrote to attack him.
Could someone please tell him! Why was it Bruce again?! Why was it teacher and student again?! Why was it this kind of mutual-torment routine again?!
Schiller really wanted to grab Constantine by the collar and ask him whether he was sane.
But thinking it over, Constantine definitely did not know that Pride would drag him here midway through. He had probably assumed the people reading this novel at the end would still be Bruce and Pride. He had shown no mercy in concocting this story, going all out on a double-barreled exposé of dark history.
But sorry, an Agent could take on Congress above and work the grassroots below, but he really could not endure the suffering of being Bruce's