Monger stared blankly at his face in the mirror.
It was a face entirely unfamiliar to him. The direction of his horns had been altered, his skin had become a faint yellow similar to that of a normal human, and the contours of his face had softened somewhat. The pustules and inflammation on his skin had also been cleverly concealed.
This made Monger look like nothing more than a mildly mutated middle-aged man with horns.
Monger touched his own face in disbelief.
Zhou Yun had suddenly produced a large jar of strange gray clay from who knew where.
He had pressed the clay onto Monger's face, and in the blink of an eye, changed it into something else.
No wonder, no wonder he had said Monger could come along too.
Monger could sense that Zhou Yun still harbored considerable wariness toward them.
He looked toward Zhou Yun, who stood in a corner of the shack, molding his own face with that peculiar clay.
"A little higher on the cheeks?"
Zhou Yun asked the winged figure in the white glow by his eyes.
"Yes, yes, about two millimeters higher."
"Raise the hairline a little. Guilliman's hairline wasn't that low."
"What about the eyes? Does it have the right feel?"
"It looks right. Guilliman had that look in his eyes ten thousand years ago."
"Right, adjust the corners of the mouth like this."
"With Guilliman's face, it was no wonder my brothers suspected him of being a rebel ten thousand years ago."
Jeanne, Malkit, and Monger watched Zhou Yun talking to himself with utterly baffled expressions.
"Does your dad have schizophrenia or something?" Monger could not help crouching down and asking Jeanne beside him.
Jeanne gave Monger a disgusted look, then quickly moved farther away from him.
The rejected Monger froze in