One of the most childish things people did was refuse to accept their bad luck, always hoping a bad thing would turn into a good one.
This tendency made people unconsciously distort the odds of certain things succeeding.
Unfortunately, believing that people could overcome fate was idealism. If you cut fruit and hit a bomb, insisting it had just happened to be quenched was nothing but self-deception.
"Can I ask what method you're planning to use to suppress the curse, Old Man?"
After finishing his musings, Fu Qian looked at Camus and asked sincerely.
"How could you be so naive as to think I'd answer that?"
The deterioration of Camus's body continued, and it was visibly happening much faster than Fu Qian's.
But Camus didn't care in the slightest. As he spoke, he dragged his deformed body forward.
"Of course, it wouldn't matter if I told you. It's not a method someone as simple-minded as you could use anyway."
It was obvious that he was trying to provoke Fu Qian while racing against time, repeatedly reminding him that his consciousness was already being affected.
"Got it. It's not a universal method, but one that relies on your own abilities?"
Fu Qian nodded thoughtfully, seemingly unfazed.
"Very good. Unfortunately, there's no prize!"
Camus's laughter rang directly in Fu Qian's mind.
His actual body had become a heap of mangled flesh on the ground, and he could no longer speak.
But above his ruined remains, a translucent spirit identical to his former appearance had drawn close to Fu Qian and raised its right hand toward him.
However, the instant the spirit's fingertips touched Fu Qian's chest, Camus suddenly froze. Something felt wrong.
Sharp spikes had sprouted from the other man's chest, piercing through his clothes to meet him.
Even as a demigod,