"Blasphemy. What a wonderful name!"
Fu Qian spoke as casually as if he were drinking at a hundredth-birthday banquet.
"It suits your ability perfectly—or should I call it your Authority?"
"As expected of a being on the level of a god. Even if you're only an echo, the first thing you think about is how to ensure your own continuity."
Seeing the Mal Brothers standing there dumbstruck, Fu Qian clicked his tongue.
"What they see should be different from what I see, right?"
"Have certain experiences made you so overly cautious that you no longer even trust yourself?"
The other man's face had softened. He listened quietly, then let out a sigh full of pity.
"You're saying you're me? Then there's a problem. What just appeared in my head?"
"Tell me."
Tapping his temple, Fu Qian asked bluntly.
The other man bluntly fell silent.
"The answer to every key question is for me to think harder. It seems like you're not interfering at all, letting me arrive at the right answer on my own. But the truth is, you simply can't see it, can you?"
"Of course, the real you might be able to. It's just that the one in front of me is only a projection."
"You're different from everyone else. There's something seriously wrong with your state! And that mask on your face..."
Faced with Fu Qian's years-honed power of mockery, the other version of himself—or, more respectfully, the Blasphemy Monarch—finally gave up trying.
"This? ..."
Fu Qian touched the mask on his face and once again felt deeply grateful to the Pontiff. Without this thoughtful imperial gift, a low-key, socially anxious person like him would have no idea how to go out.
"So you can see more of those two over there, right? In other words, demigods