A Poor Gang

At the table covered with a tablecloth, Cyril took out the dagger he carried with him and cut his palm. Then he smeared his blood across the tablecloth, which bore a bizarre oil painting.

The blood of a Beyonder, rich in Spirituality, was an excellent material and a fine pigment. He intended to use his blood to alter the painting.

He had grasped the relevant knowledge while looking at the image on the tablecloth just moments ago. It wasn't difficult, at least not for him. It felt like an instinct he'd been born with.

But Cyril didn't think it was an instinct. He believed it was a reflection of the incomplete authority of the High-Dimensional Overseer within him.

Ever since becoming a Beyonder, he'd been vaguely able to sense that the empty position within him was slowly completing itself. That was why he'd been able to use the Apprentice's Door Opening to escape the Painting World earlier. He already possessed a trace of authority over dimensions and Fantasy.

As he lost blood, Cyril began to feel a chill spreading through him, along with the dizziness of insufficient blood supply.

"Damn it, why make the painting so huge? Ever heard of quality over quantity? I'm about to bleed dry."

Cyril grumbled as he pulled his hand back. He took a test tube containing pale green Potions from his pocket, rubbed some onto the wound in his palm, then gulped down the rest.

This was a healing Potion from the Fat Apothecary at Old Mr. Eye of Wisdom's gathering. The man could use some work on his speaking skills, but he was undeniably good at making Potions.

As the Potion went down, the pallor on Cyril's face gradually faded, replaced by a hint of color.

After tending to his injury, he looked at the tablecloth he'd just altered.

The vivid red blood formed a series of twisted lines, along with mysterious symbols and markings. Like chains, they bound the contorted faces in the original image. He had sealed the "painting."

All that remained was to find a way to extract the power of the High-Dimensional Overseer from the painting and complete himself further.

But he had no idea how. He couldn't extract the power from the painting, nor could he dispel or purify the parts that didn't belong to the High-Dimensional Overseer.

After all, this was a trap—a cage—prepared for him by the High-Dimensional Overseer, not a care package dropped off by some old buddy. It wasn't going to let him put it to good use.

"Looks like I can only ask Adam for help."

As soon as the painting on the tablecloth was sealed, Owen, who'd been standing beside the table in a daze, suddenly came to his senses and collapsed limply to the floor.

The Painting World in the tablecloth had posed no obvious danger, but the malice and curses within it were more than an ordinary person could withstand.

"I... careful... escape..."

Owen lay on the floor, terror still lingering in his eyes as he struggled to utter a few words.

After hesitating, Cyril crouched beside him, took out a healing Potion, and poured it into Owen's mouth. Then he helped him sit against the wall.

He didn't think the healing Potion would do much, since it was meant for physical injuries, but at least it might comfort Owen.

Well... perhaps it could also stop his heart from racing or keep him from dropping dead from fright.

Gathering his thoughts, Cyril patted Owen on the shoulder. "I've dealt with the danger. Rest for a while. The healing Potion needs time to work. I'll go check upstairs."

"Wait... take..."

Owen raised a feeble hand and gestured for him to take his gun.

Cyril didn't refuse. He did need a suitable weapon.

He rolled up the tablecloth and placed it beside Owen, then made another circuit of the first floor. Once he'd confirmed there were no hidden dangers, he went upstairs.

The empty corridor and shut doors were just as he'd seen them on the second floor in the Painting World. The moans from the surrounding rooms were gone, as was the pungent smell of essential oils in the air.

"Was it a coincidence? No. There are no coincidences in the Beyonder world."

"Did the painting on the tablecloth only appear after it was brought into the barrier, or can its contents change with the surroundings?"

After murmuring to himself, he gathered his thoughts and pressed his palm against the wall beside him.

The next moment, a blurry, insubstantial doorway of deep blue appeared in the wall. He silently passed through it and entered the room next door.

The moment he stepped inside, a pungent mixture of sweat and fermenting food engulfed him. He narrowed his eyes.

Cyril fought down the nausea churning in his stomach, quickly scanned the room, then pressed his hand against the wall behind him and used Door Opening to leave the stinky room.

"Cough, cough..."

He coughed as he hurried away from the room. It really reeked.

Standing in the empty corridor, Cyril hesitated as he looked at the remaining rooms. If they all smelled like the last one, he'd probably throw up after a few more visits.

After a few seconds of deliberation, he went to a door and grasped the handle. He gently turned it and opened the door.

This time he didn't choose to pass through the wall. He used the door, intending to observe from the entrance.

Inside was a row of communal beds. Personal belongings lay scattered across the floor, and clothes, shoes, and socks were piled beside the beds.

He opened the rest of the doors one by one. Every room was a dormitory with communal beds. Some were messy, others tidy, but all showed obvious signs of habitation. Plenty of people lived here, yet he hadn't seen a single one of them.

"Could they all have gone off to work the night shift? Backlund's gangsters have proper jobs now?"

He muttered to himself and continued up the stairs to the third floor.

Clean walls and wooden floors, gas sconces that stayed lit, and a faint scent of perfume led Cyril to guess that this floor belonged to the Blood Axe Gang's higher-ups—and that one of them was a woman.

"The living conditions are worlds apart. They're squeezing the underlings this hard? Aren't they worried they'll rebel?"

As he spoke, he fell silent. This was a world with Beyonder powers. If the Blood Axe Gang's leader was a Beyonder, he or she could squeeze their underlings without worrying about a rebellion.

"Old habits of thought are dangerous. You can't build a gang that lasts in the Beyonder world by relying on ordinary people alone."

After a quiet sigh, he pulled a charm from his pocket and gripped it, then clicked the safety off his pistol.

If the Blood Axe Gang probably had Beyonders, he needed to be careful. The Apprentice didn't have much combat ability, after all.

Click.

The wooden floor beneath Cyril's feet suddenly gave way in the quiet corridor, making a sharp sound.

He stood motionless, expressionless, while cursing to himself:

What kind of shoddy flooring was this? The place belonged to a gang boss, for heaven's sake. Couldn't they have used better materials when they renovated?

He stood there warily for a long while, but not a sound came from any of the rooms around him. Like the floors below, this one seemed to be empty too.

That didn't put him at ease. If anything, it made him more alert. This definitely wasn't normal.

Click... click...

Cyril cautiously moved forward. Every step broke through the wooden floor beneath him, producing another sharp crack.

He reached out and touched the wall. From the spot where his hand made contact, cracks spread like a spider's web. The plaster began to crumble and peel away.

Clearly, this wasn't just a case of shoddy flooring. Some kind of power had tainted the materials, and every room on the third floor had rotted away.

Cyril quickly stopped and examined himself. Once he'd confirmed that nothing was wrong with him, he finally breathed a sigh of relief.

"I can't go everywhere just because I have an Apprentice's abilities. Sometimes danger comes Silencio, and by the time you notice it, it may already be too late."

"Fortunately, I've found a lead on the Potion ingredients Owen needs. You really can't get by without a Seer when you're away from home."

After muttering to himself, he went to a door and gave it a gentle push. The entire door came free of its frame and fell backward.

The door hit the floor with a smack and shattered. The floor beneath it split with web-like cracks, sending up a cloud of dust.

He quickly scanned the room, then turned and left without lingering.

He'd just heard a creaking sound beneath his feet. The floorboards seemed ready to give way; if he kept moving around, the whole floor might collapse.

Besides, there was no need to keep exploring. The entire third floor had rotted away, and there was no chance of finding anything valuable. If he accidentally triggered whatever danger had caused the place to become abnormal, the risk wouldn't be worth it.