Actually, Su Ming did not believe much in miracles, nor had he ever placed his hopes in them.
To him, the key was to rely on deduction and calculation to make things develop as closely as possible along the course he envisioned, rather than waiting for some so-called miracle to occur.
His views were rather traditional—he believed that where there was a will, there was a way, and that human initiative mattered more than mysticism.
It was like playing a mobile game. Before pulling for cards, you washed your face and burned incense, hoping for the statistical miracle of getting the perfect draw in one shot. In truth, that was less reliable than spending ten 648 packs on the game account.
It was not that he rejected taking a gamble when necessary, but for a lone Mercenary who could not rely on teammates, it was best to have an eighty percent chance of success before gambling on luck.
Still, Farys meant no harm. There was an invisible, thick barrier between this creature that resembled a massive meat jar and Su Ming, born of the differing worldviews brought about by time.
As a survivor who had lived through the destruction of the Eighth Firmament, he truly needed to believe in miracles. Otherwise, he could not have held on until now; he would have gone mad long ago.
"Wait, Deathstroke. Be careful."
Just as Su Ming was preparing to head toward the Bell Tower, Farys tugged on his arm, signaling him to stop and look at the sky.
Dark clouds blanketed the heavens. There was no sign of the Black Mist Dragon; instead, an utterly ordinary-looking human was silently drifting down at high speed.
Yes, drifting. His flight path was like a falling feather, spiraling as he descended.
"What is that? Someone