The Storm Eye

"Emotional contagion is unconscious; we often don't realize when we've fallen into the clutches of others."

"When others are in pain, it activates the same brain regions, making us feel similar pain."

"People with a gift for Inspiration possess an incredibly powerful ability to empathize and connect; it is both their greatest strength and their Achilles' heel, their [Gate of Death]."

"Research from Delft University of Technology in the Holland shows that a fake smile is a very powerful hypnotic technique. It can not only make others feel less stressed, but it can also be so realistic that it makes the body feel relaxed and happy."

"However, prolonged fake smiling is detrimental to physical health and may, in a very small way, induce mental illness, leading to histrionic personality disorder and ultimately schizophrenia."

Brilliant sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the farmhouses and warehouses in the countryside of Forty District.

Outside the houses in the farmhouse, five or six heavily armed guards stood scattered about, while a projector in the living room was playing a video of a gunsmith's knightly combat skills course.

These words just now came from the first lesson of <Knight Combat Techniques: Teamwork>.

Under the bright sunlight, the image on the projector became dim and lifeless, and the nameless figure's shadow gradually faded, making it difficult to discern the gunsmith's true appearance in the projected image.

There was some blood on the felt on the table, and it was impossible to tell what kind of animal it was from. All that was known was that the farm owner had just finished slaughtering the animals and had rushed back into the house without even washing his hands.

A tall figure sat upright in front of a small tea table, away from the window and close to the dining room and kitchen/bathroom.

He was a burly Slav, and judging from his appearance, one could narrow down the ethnic group to the vicinity of Serbia. Historically, the people living in this area frequently exchanged genes with the outside world; trade and war shaped them.

Like the men of his hometown, he had a neat short haircut and well-defined features, but unlike those of Western Europeans, his features were not sharp and assertive. In particular, his large, childlike eyes, as well as his rounded chin and forehead, made this burly man of unknown age look more like a child.

Notail, a DOTA2 professional player from Denmark, and Nikola Jokic, an NBA center from Serbia, both have this quirky yet adorable facial feature.

A flamboyant white feather cloak served as his shoulder adornment; his strong and powerful limbs seemed too small to fit into the small chair; his powerful hips and legs were tightly wrapped in thick military green woolen trousers, which, together with his large knuckles resting on the tea table, constituted a rich and astonishing elemental quality.

Embroidered on the white feather cloak was a golden eagle banner. Six years later, after 1,999 days, the nameless wolf pack's pursuit of the Eagle Falcon — the Immortals— had returned to the trading post and arrived once again in the territory of Ming De.

"Listen carefully." He raised his index finger, but didn't point to anything specific; his eyes were unfocused, his soul already drifting far away. "My name is Pellegrini."

"His full name is Pellegrini Tuan. If you are willing to become servants of the Immortals, I will bestow this elixir upon you."

As the fingertip moved horizontally, it clearly pointed to a family of three kneeling on the floor of the living room.

--That is, the male and female owners of the farm, and a child around fourteen or fifteen years old.

Pellegrini is a member of the Immortals Alliance, a group of immortal beings who possess unimaginable wealth, social experience, and knowledge. If they live long enough, they can transform into powerful monsters made of flesh and blood.

At this moment, Pellegrini was inspired by the alliance to come to the Forty District to do a trivial matter.

Putting aside the mystical rituals, to put it bluntly, it's about making things difficult for gunsmiths.

--The group in Shinto City had exhausted the Nameless One's weapons. When this information reached the ears of the Immortals, it carried a hint of ambiguity.

Time will Death God weapons, and it will also kill the brave warriors who wield them.

Nineteen hundred and ninety-nine days is but a fleeting moment for Pellegrini, but for the gunsmith, it represents the transition from his toughest and most ruthless youth to a slower-paced middle age. The seemingly invincible nameless figure no longer seems so powerful.

In all the battles, large and small, the Nameless Ones had never suffered such heavy losses before; this was the first time all of their weapons had been destroyed.

So the Immortals gathered again, secretly pondering and considering whether the tiger had had its fangs removed and whether they could try to provoke it a few times.

The battle report and list of participants from the Fairy Tale Kingdom, along with Li Zhiwen's commentary, led the Immortals to pinpoint the Gunsmith's location and decide to test his abilities using the gentlest methods possible.

These immortal eagles living in Homo sapiens society dispatched their idea king, Mr. Pellegrini, a powerful psychic who possesses witchcraft and evil magic, and is protected by spiritual power.

His combat capabilities are not up to an excellent level; in fact, they can be considered a weakness.

At this point, we have to use the person in the grave as an analogy. Six years ago, when facing the Gunsmith head-on, even though he was seriously injured and his fighting spirit was almost broken, Kang Que Cornelius was still able to wound the Gunsmith. In the end, he was defeated and died. He can be considered one of the more capable fighters among this group of demons. If we take this god of love as the standard unit of measurement.

Pellegrini's overall fighting ability is approximately 0.6 times that of Johnny Kid.

A 23-year-old gunsmith is 0.9 times Johnny Boy.

Despite her extreme fear of sunlight and fire, Mary Stuart possessed unparalleled swordsmanship; in terms of sheer physical exertion during combat, she was equivalent to 1.3 Johnny Boys.

As for Pellegrini, this shrewd strategist, his specific plan for coming to Forty District was to target the gunsmith's students. He certainly didn't have any desire to get tired of living, nor did he want to buy a house in the Merit Forest.

He took a long detour, arriving in Forty District to collect battle reports from the Daji Town competition area while keeping an eye on the gunsmith's movements. He decided to make his move today and do something utterly inhumane.

"Master, your eldest son is competing in the tournament in Daji Town. What's his name? Could you tell me?"

Pellegrini asked slowly and gently, shaking the small bottle. The blood-red elixir collided with the glass wall, leaving specks of scarlet blood, which were then absorbed back into the round, fleshy ball, revealing the red eye markings of Madness Butterfly.

The farmer knelt before Pellegrini, the honest peasant tilting his head slightly, tears and cold sweat clinging to his skin, which was contorted with tension. His wrinkled, brownish-yellow face squeezed the water stains into clumps of shadow.

"Mr. Pellegrini... I... I don't know what you're trying to do. Why are you doing this? Why did you bring so many people to my house? And..."

Before he could finish speaking, the farmer instinctively reached to cross his arms—a defensive gesture—but the fingers on his right arm were gone.

When they invaded the farm, Pellegrini's mercenaries had already done the initial processing of the meat, chopped off the old farmer's fingers, and simply sealed the opening with White Lady's products, turning the family into obedient children.

Seemingly too panicked, the man didn't dare utter the words "chop off my fingers" or even express any sense of reproach.

"I have already told you my name," Pellegrini continued unhurriedly. "It is basic etiquette to introduce yourself to strangers—and I do not wish to repeat this foolish question."

As he said this, he waved his hand, and the mercenary captain who was keeping watch at the door blew a Bu Liuxing whistle. Two of his men then rushed in to separate the farm owner from his wife and young son.

"I have an eldest son who studies in Forty-One District! He's eighteen! He has psychic abilities!"

The farm owner immediately shouted--

"--He just enrolled! His youth training results are quite good. He called us and said that Zebra Power Team had their eye on his talent and wanted him to be a substitute attacker."

"My name is Conde Pero, my wife takes my last name, my eldest son is named Mali, and my youngest son is named Groba."

"Our eldest son hasn't called us for two weeks. He must have received a scholarship from the power team. His roommate is Asian, named Cheng Yutian. He said he used the money to find a girlfriend and doesn't want us to know."

"That's all I know! Mr. Pellegrini! Mr. Pellegrini! Me."

Old farmer Conde spoke slower and slower, as if he were having asthma, struggling to breathe due to excessive tension and fear.

"Sounds like a great lad," Pellegrini praised. "I remember Zebra Power Team, also a favorite in Daji Town, isn't that right?"

Old Conde nodded blankly. "Yes. It's an engine company, a very famous one."

Pellegrini stood up, shooed his two men away, and with a fervent look in his eyes and a gentle demeanor, went to the projector and turned off the gunsmith's lesson.

"Is this his? Does he admire nameless heroes?"

Old Conde nodded. "Yes."

Pellegrini: "You think so too? Just like Mali? Little Groba —tell me."

As he said this, with his white feather cloak draped on the floor, Pellegrini, not minding the dirt at all, squatted down in front of old Conde's youngest son and asked with a smile.

"You also like gunsmiths, don't you?"

At the mention of the nameless man, Little Groba's eyes lit up, and he was about to nod—

--Old Conde immediately rebuked, "No! No! Sir, that's not how it is! That's not right!"

"It seems the father and child have had a slight disagreement." Pellegrini immediately became excited and turned to the hostess, asking, "Madam, your husband and child both seem to have something to say. So, for you, are your family members all admirers of anonymous heroes? They really enjoy stories of heroes, don't they?"

"Nana." Old Conde shook his head nervously, his face wrinkling as he cried out, "No, Nana ...no...no...don't."

The answer is obvious: for ordinary families in Forty District, the nameless ones are like sacred guardians, divine messengers who bring happiness and well-being to those who are Ming De, and virtuous.

Mr. Pellegrini, a smiling tiger who enters people's homes, cuts off their fingers, and tortures them, must be a mortal enemy of the anonymous person.

Old Conde only wanted to survive with his family, nothing more. He wouldn't allow his wife and children to give the wrong answer, even if it offended the mysterious man before him, a man of unknown origin draped in Eagle Falcon banner—their lives would be in danger.

"Can't say it?" Mr. Pellegrini stroked his chin, sounding somewhat disappointed. "It seems the people who risked their lives to protect you aren't that important to you after all. Hahahahahaha."

Old Conde laughed awkwardly, "Hahaha."

The hostess Nana, laughed along with her husband, "Hehehehehe."

Only the youngest, Groba, didn't laugh, because children don't lie. He simply stared into Monsieur Pellegrini's eyes, intently fixed on those Eagle Falcon linear pupils. He remembered those pupils; eight years ago, when there were still cult activities in the Forty District, the prominent figures in the church who enjoyed cannibalism all had such beautiful eyes.

"The gunsmith is right." Pellegrini pursed his lips and frowned, his expression very strange. "The power of emotion is indeed very strong. Even a fake smile can make one happy. It's a very powerful magic."

He propped himself up on his knees and then continued to shake the elixir in his hand.

"Conde, have you made up your mind?"

Conde, looking somewhat dazed, replied, "Consider what?"

"Stop playing dumb." Pellegrini spoke slowly and deliberately, almost gritting his teeth as he said the last few words. His face, which had been childlike, suddenly showed veins bulging on his forehead. "I can tolerate stupidity; I'm a very open-minded person. But I cannot tolerate deception—you understand what I mean, yet you want me to waste my time on you."

"I'll ask you one more time, are you willing to do something for the Immortals? Just a small thing, a trivial matter."

"This elixir is readily available. If you feel you're too old, your wife is too ugly, and you feel you've wasted your life, that your years have passed and your future is hopeless, you can give it to your eldest son, Mali."

"He can be a great help to you, saving you from many detours. If he handles things perfectly, your whole family can regain their youth and enjoy wealth and prosperity."

Conde's expression changed in an instant; his fragile inner defenses were finally about to collapse.

Yes, why not listen to Mr. Pellegrini?

Yes, yes, Conde, think about it carefully. Mali's life shouldn't be as mediocre as yours.

He may have a bright future, but it's only a possibility.

--Young men like him are a dime a dozen in the underworld; the fact that he was favored by the Power Team is just pure luck.

What did the anonymous person do for your family?

Did Ming De ever favor you?

"Say yes!" Nana, the mistress, suddenly grabbed Conde's hand; "Say yes, say yes quickly! I don't want to die, I don't want to die yet, I..."

Mr. Pellegrini looked puzzled. "Madam, I never intended to harm your lives—there's no need to be so tense."

"I've had enough!" Nana said fiercely and passionately, "Conde! I don't want to live in this hellhole anymore! I don't! Let Mali prove himself! Every day you have to drive Groba to school sixteen kilometers away, and then it's just work, work, work!"

"It takes two bus transfers to get to the city. The sun here is too harsh, just because the crops in the fields need plenty of sunlight? And me? Have you thought about me all these years?"

"I don't care what this man is trying to do! You recognize what he's holding, don't you?!"

"When Mali was in high school, he was catching up on Gunsmith's online classes every day. This stuff is like a magic pill. You know, only the elites of the Madness Butterfly Sect can afford such a magic pill."

"Yes, yes," old Conde nodded repeatedly, "Yes, yes."

Like believers chanting prayers before a shrine, they need to break down the barriers in their hearts and overcome that hurdle.

"That's right, Nana, you're right, you make a good point. Mr. Pellegrini, Mr. Pellegrini, you must have other candidates, right? That must be it. My son isn't anything special."

"That must be it. We can't let this opportunity slip by. That must be it."

"The nameless people didn't deliver the Universal Elixir to my house, they didn't. They didn't give me any money, nor did they help me move to a bigger house. Where were they when my fingers were chopped off? Now they..."

"Now."

Conde appeared dazed and delirious, as if possessed.

Mr. Pellegrini didn't say anything superfluous; he merely emitted a faint spiritual pressure, which convinced the two farm owners to "convince themselves"—a fact that both pleased and moved him.

Within seconds, Conde's eyes had turned red.

"Mr. Pellegrini! What do you want me to do? I will do it immediately! Without hesitation!"

The child in the couple's arms suddenly struggled and roared at the demon draped in white feathers who resembled a priest.

"What did you do to my parents?! The anonymous person will not let you get away with this!"

Brave Little Groba's eyes welled with tears, and he clenched his fists.

"You big bad guy! One day you'll be split in two!"

Before he could finish speaking, old Conde immediately covered his youngest son's mouth, his face contorted with fierce rage. "Shut up! You son of a bitch, you're just making things worse!"

"Actually, this child..." The hostess, Nana, was flustered and knelt by the blanket, but dared not touch Pellegrini's leg. She could only open her arms and explain fearfully, "Actually, this child has little to do with us, sir. If you don't like him, I can send him to my aunt's house."

"Then I'll have to trouble you." Pellegrini smiled and placed the finger and the Universal Elixir into old Conde's hands, "Especially you, Mr. Conde."

He gave special instructions, acting like a humble doctor, making people feel as if they were bathed in a spring breeze.

"It will hurt a bit when your finger heals, I'm really sorry for causing you so much unnecessary trouble. But the compensation you deserve will definitely not be less than what you're owed."

Conde nodded vigorously, already dazzled by the enormous, white jar when he brought out the Universal Elixir.

"This elixir must be given to your eldest son, Mali. You must know that he is your future. No parent in the world would harm their own flesh and blood—if you sell it or consume it yourself..." Pellegrini shook his head, pursed his lips, and said nothing more.

Nana immediately said, "I understand! I understand! Mali loves my cooking! I know what I'm doing!"

Pellegrini left a wad of cash, without using his HC card.

"--Fortune favors the brave. Mr. Conde, I wish your child great success in the Moon God Cup, and that his life will also be filled with success."

Conde quickly stood up to open the door for Mr. Pellegrini, but he had lost a few fingers and couldn't even turn the doorknob.

Pellegrini opened the door himself and patted old Conde on the shoulder.

"Don't bother, the doorknob is malfunctioning, but I have a way to fix it."

His eyes suddenly turned sorrowful, and a bitter spiritual pressure shot straight at Conde's face.

"If Little Groba doesn't behave, you'll have a hard time. I think this child is very difficult to manage. Sending him to his aunt's house isn't a solution either. He's already fourteen years old and quite capable—he can do many things that adults can hardly imagine."

Conde wanted to say something, but dared not utter it.

Pellegrini didn't finish his sentence; he simply shook the pocket under his cloak, revealing two small bottles—also elixirs.

"Let's talk about this again next time we meet."

The sparse mercenary group withdrew from the farm as if nothing had happened.

In the vast fields, the summer monsoon blows through the wheat. From the far distance of the cement road, two cars with fake license plates can be seen driving further and further away until they disappear on the horizon.

The felt on the table was stained with fresh blood, and this time we should be able to deduce that it wasn't animal blood—it was Little Groba's blood.

The couple were restless, staring at the money on the table, beginning their third internal struggle.

You're asking where they went the second time?

The second process was too short--

--It's terrifyingly short.

Just minutes earlier, in the slaughterhouse next to the cattle pen, Little Groba was taken away by his parents to see his aunt.

His body was not completely cold yet. Like most European families, their kinship ties were weak. Even blood relatives could be easily abandoned once a new pillar of support was found.

He initially lay on his back beside the slaughterhouse grass, and his mother beat him with a rolling pin until he was dizzy, but he didn't completely pass out. His father picked him up, stuffed him into the water trough in the stable, and he finally drowned. When they dragged him back to the slaughterhouse, blood left a V-shaped mark on the stable and cattle pen.

He went into the slicer, but the blade broke, so Conde took some sauce to the vegetable garden. The wild animals in the cowshed watched all this silently, and in their big, yellow eyes, they could see a phantom and bewildered spirit—it was Little Groba standing outside the house, not completely gone, nor intending to go back inside.

"What do we do now?" Old Conde asked, almost as if he already knew the answer. Losing Monsieur Pellegrini was like losing his emotional anchor.

Nana, her hands covered in blood, said calmly between tears, "Deliver the elixir to Mali? As Mr. Pellegrini instructed?"

Old Conde sat at the dining table, breathing heavily. After a long, long time, his wife remained silent, and his youngest son could no longer speak. He felt an eerie peace.

Nana finally started to go crazy, as if her long-suppressed emotions had finally found an outlet.

"What have I done! What have I done! Damn it! What have I done! What the hell am I doing! My Groba. My Groba. Mom, I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sorry."

Conde interrupted her; his simple, powerful phrase was like a spell, instantly calming the woman who was filled with sorrow, anger, fear, and madness.

"Okay, that's enough. Everything's fine now, things are getting easier."

Nana nodded, then looked at the elixir on the table. The fleshy ball shimmered with an eerie grayish-white light, a characteristic of a spirit; ordinary people couldn't see this grayish-white eye.

Mr. Pellegrini, who had been gone for some time, sat in his car and removed the prosthetic eye from its socket.

He called out Soul Might's true name.

"The rest is up to you—[Storm Eye Of The Storm]."

He held his phone, using the front-facing camera to examine the empty eye sockets, hoping that this small amount of primordial essence could become a bridge for the spirit, sending the power of the soul to distant places.

The phone screen switched back to the gunsmith's lesson.

People with a negative outlook are more likely to choose partners who belittle or hurt them.

"Depressed people may even regard those who abuse them as family or close friends."

"Humans are such strange creatures, possessing an extremely strong self-destructive urge."

"Students, we need to fight against this subconscious mind and bind the demons within us with ropes."

Pellegrini turned off his phone and clapped softly.

"--Well said, gunsmith."