Many-Faced God

After the Faceless Men pointed out, with a judgment that felt like a verdict, that Yulon's nature was contrary to their path, the dead silence in the hall seemed to gain weight, pressing down until it was suffocating. However, the heterochromatic flame in Yulon Greyjoy's eyes did not extinguish; instead, it burned even deeper.

Yulon Greyjoy did not flinch at being seen through. Instead, he took half a step forward, his voice low, with a probing tone that was almost defiant:

"Since trade and conversion are neither easy paths," he said slowly, his gaze burning into the messenger of death before him, "then, is there another possibility? Does the Many-Faced God, or its servants, perhaps... reap friendship? Or, can a mortal, through some means, ensure they never appear on your 'delivery list'? Beyond cold transactions and complete self-annihilation, is there no third way?"

His question transcended simple fear or employment, touching the edge of establishing some special connection with this absolute power of death. This was not a plea for mercy, but a more audacious probing, attempting to find a vague and dangerous third position beyond the opposing identities of "employer" and "target."

The Faceless Man who had spoken earlier remained silent, his ancient-well-like eyes showing no ripple, as if the question itself was meaningless.

Just then, the shadow on the other side slid open silently like a curtain.

Another Faceless Man stepped out from within. He wore a hooded robe, the right half black and the left half white, seeming to be shrouded in a more ancient, more heart-stopping silence. As he came to face the three, Lysa and Daggmo widened their eyes. They saw clearly that beneath the hood, his face was a yellow skull covered in skin, with a white maggot crawling out of its eye sockets.

Yulon reacted calmly. The bloodline of the Grey King granted him the ability to see through all illusions with his black left eye; he could see the true appearance of the priests.

He did not look at Yulon but walked directly to the deep pool, scooping up a little of the pitch-black pool water with a bone-white bowl. Then, he turned to Yulon and offered the bowl, his movements slow and ritualistic. "Drink," he said, his voice dry, like gravestones grinding against each other. He spoke in the Common Tongue of Westeros.

The Kind Man, a priest serving the Many-Faced God in the Hall of Black and White, was also the only one in the Hall of Black and White who spoke the Common Tongue of Westeros. All signs indicated that he was the person in charge of the Hall of Black and White, or rather, the one with the highest status.

Yulon's heterochromatic pupils narrowed slightly. After a moment's hesitation, he took the bowl and drank the ice-cold water, which carried an indescribable bitterness and a faint metallic taste. The water flowed down his throat like an icy line straight to his stomach, and then a strange clarity washed over him.

Yulon slowly closed his eyes, draining the bowl of turbid, unknown-scented liquid. The icy sensation slid down his throat but instantly ignited some inner heat. The surrounding world rapidly faded and collapsed, his consciousness violently yanked into an endless, suffocating dark ocean.

He once again felt the bone-chilling cold, the seawater pressing against his chest like icy giant hands, his lungs burning with pain—that was the despair of struggling to drown in the "Huang Zhengdao" sea. Immediately after, the icy sensation was replaced by a bizarre "resuscitation," as if he were being forcibly dragged back from eternal silence by an unseen force. Salty seawater sprayed from his mouth and nose, and the muffled cheers of the Ironborn for the Drowned God's rite echoed in his ears.

It was on this blurred boundary between life and death that an ancient and seductive whisper sounded directly in the depths of his soul, like an echo from the Abyss itself:

"Death... is the gentlest gift..."

"Death... is the only end to all suffering in the world..."

"Death... is the eternal door for mortals to find release..."

The voice was ethereal and hollow, yet it carried a power that pierced the heart: "Are you... afraid of death? Are you afraid... of finally embracing this eternal peace?"

Just as his consciousness was about to sink into the temptation of this eternal slumber, a primal pride and unwillingness from the deepest part of his bloodline erupted! This was not thought, but the most instinctive, fiercest roar against fate!

"All men must die!" His will was like the hardest reef, shattering that illusory whisper, "But my death day is absolutely not today! If this world had no me, it would still revolve according to its trajectory—but it will, because of my existence, become unprecedentedly... magnificent!"

"Boom—"

As if to respond to this defiant declaration, the [Grey King] bloodline, dormant in his blood, completely boiled! His heart pounded violently like a war drum, each beat pumping out scorching blood filled with ancient power. Faint but clear crackling sounds began to explode in the air around him, and weak arcs of electricity, like small blue snakes, appeared out of nowhere, dancing and flashing around his body. The sea breeze rose inexplicably, stirring his hair and robes, carrying the scent of ozone and the roar of the ocean.

Yulon's eyes snapped open.

His right eye remained cold, but his left eye—had transformed into a pure, bottomless black, as if connected to the abyss of eternal night. It not only reflected no light but seemed to swallow everything around it, including light and sound.

At this moment, the Faceless Man, the Kind Man, slowly raised his hand.

In his palm, a rough, ancient, and heavy iron coin had appeared at some point. It had no exquisite carvings, only a blurred outline of a human skull on one side and a monkey-like skull pattern on the other, exuding an incomparably ancient, pure aura of deathly stillness.

The Faceless Man placed the coin in Yulon's hand. The coin felt icy cold, yet it seemed to burn his skin. "This is not a promise to you, nor your protection. This is a... mark."

For the first time, he raised his eyes and looked directly at Yulon. In the depths of those absolutely void eyes, Yulon seemed to see billions of distorted faces flash by and then vanish into oblivion.

"All men must die, and you are no exception."

The Faceless Man's voice remained steady, but it carried an unprecedented weight, almost like a divine oracle. "But your death... its form, its timing, its meaning, have long been watched by eyes higher than ours. You are not a pawn of fate; you are the unstable core in the eye of the storm. Countless threads of destiny intertwine, snap, and reshape because of you. Take it, and remember the taste of this water. When the true 'price' arrives, when there is no other path... perhaps you can find a way to come here again."

Having said what he needed to say, the Faceless Man left expressionlessly, as if he had never appeared. The meaning in his words was obscure and profound; he did not promise friendship, but he clearly indicated that Yulon was someone noticed by a higher existence—a "god."

A person noticed by the Many-Faced God would not be a target for assassination by the Faceless Men who served the Many-Faced God.

Yulon carefully put away the iron coin. This coin represented that he would not appear on the Faceless Men's assassination list; this was an unexpected gain. No one wanted to be constantly watched by skilled assassins, and the Faceless Men were the most accomplished assassins on both continents.