The "Lovecraft Manuscript" was not a magic book, but a storybook. It posed no barrier to Deathstroke, and its English wording was cold and precise.
Compared to the famous "Necronomicon," it was quite friendly, its cover not screaming at all. It even retained the warm scent of fresh ink, like a friend handing you the novel they had just written beside a warm fireplace at night.
Yet this storybook, which anyone could understand, had terrifying effects. It could summon the indescribable entities within its pages and impart knowledge that drove people mad.
From malformed Hounds of Tindalos to the dazzling, invisible Color Out of Space; from the Great Old Ones sleeping beneath the waters to the Outer Gods who loved music, countless bizarre things were recorded within.
Most interestingly, Cthulhu Mythos stories created by others after Lovecraft's death also existed in this manuscript, against all reason.
Anyone could indeed read this book, but whether they could bear the consequences of madness depended on the individual.
The last time Su Ming had flipped through it, he had instantly seen a door. On the other side stood a vast, chaotic existence that poured knowledge of painting into him through the crack in the door.
If he had been a painter, he probably would have been delighted. Inspiration obtained for nothing and superb techniques could even quickly bring fame and fortune to a mediocrity.
Unfortunately, Su Ming was not a painter, nor did he want some mysterious being to pry open his soul and stuff things into it like force-feeding a duck.
All he had felt at the time was boundless terror. Every defensive measure he possessed had failed, leaving him with the fear of being directly exposed to the vast starry sky.
But that was then and this was now. When he