Jiang Qiao's wild train of thought and nonsensical complaints were irrelevant.
The woman beside him remained calm, without the slightest change in expression. A hint of amusement even flashed in her eyes as she looked at the "Prisoner." "So you're that person's Deity Contamination..."
"I understand a little now."
She muttered to herself in a low voice that only she could hear.
"Rustle, rustle!"
The sound of pages turning rang out.
A thick, ancient book with yellowed pages and metallic patterns engraved on its cover appeared out of thin air in her left hand, while her right hand was already gripping a pitch-black Fountain Pen.
"Fate can be imprisoned."
"But imprisonment is itself part of fate."
"You have your destiny."
"And I... shall write your destiny!"
A solemn, sacred, and majestic voice spread across the already unrecognizable plaza.
After each echo.
The voice not only failed to weaken, but instead grew layer by layer.
Louder and louder.
The pen touched paper. The woman held the Fountain Pen and began writing short phrases across the ancient, heavy pages, producing a gentle "scritch, scritch" sound. Her posture was elegant, making people involuntarily want to stop and watch.
However.
As the woman moved.
The fully manifested "Prisoner" opposite her let out a shrill, monstrous cry.
Its face, which had been locked in pain for ten thousand years.
Actually revealed unmistakable fear and panic.
It was a Deity Contamination, a terrifying existence powerful enough to rival a Half-God, and the embodiment of restraint and punishment. How could it feel fear? How could it feel panic?
Even the Prisoner itself did not understand.
It had no heart, so why did it possess the emotional fluctuations of a living person?
But regardless.
Some instinctive intuition told it that disaster was about to descend. And it was