Standing in the bar.
Wenren Sheng swept his gaze over the room.
Everyone was asleep, mumbling in their dreams.
"I saw it, I saw it—the palace, so magnificent, so vibrant!"
"That is my lord, the lord I worship with all my heart!"
"I heard it, I heard my lord's voice. Please take me away. Let me attain eternal peace and eternal life."
Twisted smiles appeared on their faces. Foul-smelling seawater emerged beneath them, and gills appeared on some of their cheeks.
"They seem to be swimming toward the depths of the sea," the crow said in surprise. "What exactly did they see? What is their lord, this Cthulhu? I've never seen any trace of it in any orthodox mythology."
Yes, it was not part of orthodox mythology.
It came from the memories in his own mind.
A chaotic, indescribable mythological creation from his previous life.
At first, it had been despised, then later exalted to the skies. If someone did not mention it now and then, they would be considered out of touch.
Who could have imagined that something so wildly popular had not been created by current trends, but was the work of a genius from nearly a century ago?
Perhaps that was the sorrow of genius: seeing the truth far too early, yet being unable to use it for one's own benefit.
Van Gogh was even more so. If he had received even one percent of the status and wealth bestowed upon him by later generations while he was alive, he and his only relative, his younger brother, could have lived such joyful and happy lives.
As for Cthulhu's popularity, with Wenren Sheng's genius and wisdom, he naturally understood why: the development of modern life and its immense pressures forced many people to seek an outlet.
At such