When Old Constance saw that line,
he felt speechless at his old friend's jab about the entirely fabricated accusation that he had stitched together a thesis.
But clearly,
the Old Dean was still in a very good mood at that moment.
Just as he began carefully reading the letter,
beneath Saint Mourning Hughie Fal Graveyard,
countless massive figures writhed within the shadows. They were genetic creations born of the gods of civilization, some even hybrids of several disgusting gene strains:
Here,
they were collectively known as godspawn.
The right claw of one godspawn retained the golden plating of the Mayan Solar Calendar, while its left arm was wrapped in Tesla Coils;
inside another's abdominal cavity, fragments of Dunhuang Flying Apsaras murals could be seen coexisting with cybernetically altered organs;
and even
more horrifying individuals lurked in the shadows. One had a triple-layered head—the upper layer was a mechanical skull etched with Vedic Sanskrit, the middle layer flowed with the sap of Celtic Druids wanderers, while the lowest layer consisted of deep-sea compound eyes soaked in Formalin.
Yet even so, at the cost of madness and losing most of their reason,
they had gained a portion of the authority belonging to "gods"—fourth tier, even fifth tier.
Perhaps the other necessary purpose of Lorenz Riel's existence was to keep these terrifying monsters locked away.
But at that moment,
a man leaning in the corner of the bottomless prison was earnestly carving a wooden sculpture with a carving knife.
The middle-aged man had messy hair,
but even with godspawn howling all around him, there was not the slightest panic in his eyes.
Even when he ran the carving knife across the grain of the iron birch.
Miniature star maps burst from its tip.
—That was precisely why he could remain lucid amid the