Chapter 112: How to Create a New Character

Chapter 112 How to Create a New Character

Yi Fengchu never expected that the most difficult and complex step in his plan would actually be...

Creating a character.

With finals-week desperation, he pored over the legends left behind by the Ill Fate Witch and various cultural folklore about witches. After an entire afternoon, he finally finalized the image of "Elius."

"In many myths, red hair is considered a symbol of mysterious sorcerers because its color easily evokes associations with fire and blood, rage and passion, burning and death—in eras of primitive technology and superstition, many projected their fears of death, darkness, curses, witchcraft, and plagues onto the image of witches."

"And that witch’s blood-soaked, metallic-smelling red hair foretold disaster..."

Yi Fengchu gripped his pen tightly, frowning in thought.

Of course, such notions were neither scientific nor aligned with the occult—they were purely debunked stereotypes.

But if he wanted to quickly construct a witch image that fit most people’s imaginations, he could perhaps draw inspiration from them...

After much deliberation, Yi Fengchu tentatively decided that "Elius" would have red hair and green eyes. As he conjured her image, argent energy intertwined in midair, sketching the outline of a blurry figure.

Propping his chin on one hand, Yi Fengchu studied the figure for a moment before dimming the brightness of the fiery red hair slightly.

Originally, the figure’s curly locks resembled a raging wildfire, but after darkening the hue, they took on the appearance of dying embers in the night, exuding a more sinister, frenzied aura.

Similarly, for the witch’s green eyes, Yi Fengchu didn’t choose a bright, gem-like emerald but instead opted for a deep woodland green—a shade that made people fear delving into the emotions hidden within those depths.

As for abilities, as the Arbiter of Fate, Yi Fengchu could choose to bestow a portion of his power upon the witch, much like how he granted luck to his followers.

But this power wasn’t truly an Ability in essence—it was more akin to the twisted, madness-twisted power that some cultists gained after being tainted by elder gods.

Yi Fengchu named the power he granted the witch "*Chaos Box*", filling the ebony box she carried with the chaos of misfortune—the probability of every event leading to a negative outcome.

When the ebony box was opened before someone, they would see multiple unfavorable futures reflected in its silver mirror—perhaps injury, madness, or even death—and at least one of these terrifying futures would inevitably manifest.

"With this, it should align with the domains of fate and curses, right?"

Yi Fengchu was somewhat troubled. Though he had vanquished the Father of Nightmares and gained some resistance and mastery over curses, he hadn’t fully mastered the Curse Domain. He couldn’t truly grant Elius the power of curses.

"Hmm... A similar form should be enough to fool most observers. Unless there’s a High-level Ability user in the Curse Domain among Longinus’ higher-ups, no one would likely realize Elius isn’t actually wielding curse power."

Yi Fengchu believed the odds of the organization still boasting another curse master after he had killed both the Moth God and the Father of Nightmares were slim.

If, by some unfortunate coincidence, such a person did exist... well, he could always consider eliminating the organization’s third "Curse" as well.

Then, no one would ever uncover Elius’ deception!

Next, Yi Fengchu held his breath and focused, beginning the finer details of refining her features.

Half an hour later, Yi Fengchu stood before his masterpiece with crossed arms, scowling as he examined it from every angle, unable to shake the feeling that something was off. He turned to his phone. "What do you think?"

"..."

After a moment of thought, the phone diplomatically said: "Have you seen the study busts in art classrooms that students use for sketching?"

His frown easing slightly, Yi Fengchu was surprised the phone’s assessment was higher than he’d expected. Delighted, he asked: "You mean I’ve already reached the level of sculpting study busts?"

"No," the phone replied bluntly. "I mean the facial features you’ve crafted resemble the rough, unfinished predecessors of those plaster statues—like something just pulled from a furnace, half-formed."

"Mm. Maybe early humans, before evolution was complete, looked like this."

"...Alright, alright, shut up."

The smile vanished from Yi Fengchu’s lips. He now had a clear understanding of his sculpting skills.

He had assumed that since he’d designed and built a divine realm from scratch, character creation wouldn’t be too different—perhaps even easier.

But now, it was clear that architecture and human anatomy belonged to entirely different domains, with vastly different levels of precision...

Deeply discouraged, Yi Fengchu sulked momentarily before finally adjusting his mindset. "Well, I’ve never really sculpted faces before. It’s normal to be inexperienced."

The phone chimed in, agreeing: "True. You’ve only ever drawn stick figures your whole life. Asking you to create a lifelike form out of thin air is indeed asking too much."

"..."

Yi Fengchu slammed the phone face-down onto the table, manually silencing it, then muttered:

"Different trades require different skills. Maybe I should leave this to a professional..."

......

In a small world, at the border between a vast forest and the surrounding towns, stood a ramshackle hut.

Children from nearby towns would peek curiously at the cabin, but before they could venture close for an adventure, their elders would drag them home, sternly warning them—the cabin housed a reclusive, deranged loner who would cook any child who wandered near into a stew, never to return to their parents.

This, of course, was just a tale to scare children.

In truth, the cabin’s owner was a secretive dollmaker.

The dollmaker spent his days and nights surrounded by exquisite puppets, seemingly uneasy with human interaction.

Aside from weekly trips for supplies and occasional midnight outings to "collect specimens," he rarely left his home, leaving others clueless about what he did inside.

But the townsfolk’s fear and disdain for the dollmaker weren’t solely due to his reclusiveness. Numerous accounts fueled their fears:

"One night, I went out to answer nature's call and saw him carrying a person under the moonlight! No—no, I swear, it couldn’t have been a puppet. It was a real person. Their limbs hung limp as he dragged them from behind. I—I was so terrified, I rushed home and locked my doors and windows. Even now, remembering it makes my heart race..."

"My God, is he a murderer?"

"I heard Mary’s child once sneaked over and peeked through a crack in the cabin’s window. The kid came back with a high fever, deliriously babbling that dolls inside were staring at her, blinking..."

"Come to think of it, he never goes to church—not the ancient Truth or Life Church, nor the newly risen Fate Sect. Could he be worshipping some evil heresy?"

The townsfolk’s whispers never reached the dollmaker’s ears, and even if they had, they would have mattered little.

He had devoted all his passion and vitality to puppetry. The only thing he cared about was crafting the perfect, lifelike puppet.

Inside the cabin, the dollmaker paced anxiously, nervously tugging at his hair as he muttered: "Materials... I’m running out of puppet materials again!"

"Ordinary clay can’t hold a puppet’s soul. Only the freshest, most pristine human corpses can create a more perfect puppet..."

"But no one in the three nearby towns has died in nearly a month!"

The townsman who claimed to have seen the dollmaker carrying a living person at night had been mistaken. The dollmaker had no interest in the living—only corpses.

His midnight excursions were solely for digging up intact bodies to use as materials.

"A plague, or any other disaster, would be welcome," the dollmaker murmured to himself. "I need more death... more corpses..."

As he paced, time slipped unnoticed toward midnight. Tonight’s full moon hung preternaturally bright over the forest, like a watchful eye gazing down upon the earth.

"…The time has come."

The puppeteer abruptly stopped pacing, as if awakening from a dream, the agitation in his eyes subdued by a measure of calm. "It is time to pray to the great Witch of Doom."

Moving between the two cabinets, he was watched by the myriad dolls inside, their glassy eyes seemingly following his every move.

Reaching the end of the passage, the puppeteer pulled away a white cloth, revealing a mirror behind it. The mirror was unusually tall, almost capable of reflecting several adult figures, and in the dim light, it seemed to connect to another eerie world.

On the ground before the mirror, he drew an inverted pentagram with a red pen, lit six candles at its points and center, and extinguished all other lights in the room.

Kneeling before the mirror and the candles, the puppeteer began his daily prayer—this was one of the reasons for his reclusive life. He not only needed to hide his crimes of stealing corpses but also to guard against others discovering he was a heretic.

While the world had become tolerant of various beliefs, people still maintained a wary eye on fringe and dangerous faiths, for they could indeed bring about calamity.

The "Witch of Doom," which the puppeteer's lineage had worshipped, clearly fell into the category of non-mainstream and highly dangerous beliefs. If reported, it would likely cause him considerable trouble.

"O Witch of Doom who walks under the ancient full moon, you are the mistress of the dark side of fate, with endless disasters trailing in your wake, chaos and misfortune being your loyal followers. Your devotees always yearn for your return…"

At the end of his prayer, the puppeteer couldn't help but think of his lack of materials and added, "I beseech your response, I beg you to bring a certain scope of disaster, so that more souls may fall into your embrace."

Instantly, a cold wind rose, making the tightly shut doors and the boards nailed over the windows creak.

The candle flames within the pentagram flickered, casting distorted shadows, then one by one they went out, as if answering his plea.

The puppeteer remained in his kneeling position, his body suddenly stiffening. He realized that the wind did not come from outside, but originated within the narrow wooden house…

From the large mirror before him.

"—I answer your prayer."

A slightly low female voice came from the mirror, causing the puppeteer to tremble, both in excitement and fear.

He slowly raised his head and discovered that, at some point, the moonlight seeping through the window had taken on an ominous blood-red hue.

The dim moonlight illuminated the mirror, where a vague figure began to appear.

It was faintly discernible as a tall woman.

Under the wide brim of her wizard's hat, dark red hair flowed like murky blood, her face obscured by a misty haze, with only a pair of deep green eyes piercing through the fog, gazing at the puppeteer.

Her eyes betrayed no emotion, yet her gaze brought a palpable pressure, heavy and oppressive, as if disturbing his racing heartbeat.

Shaking with fear, the puppeteer could not tear his eyes away, as if enchanted, they were glued to the mirror.

It wasn't that he didn't want to look away; it was that... he couldn't.

Just as in the universe, tiny specks of dust are captured by the immense gravity of celestial bodies, unable to escape their orbit—so too was the puppeteer's gaze now, his heart quivering, his soul screaming, but his eyes remained fixed, irresistibly drawn to the witch in the mirror.

On the surface, he appeared to be entranced by the figure in the mirror;

But this "entrancement" was, in fact, rooted in profound fear and the absolute control of a superior over an inferior.

"M-magnificent Witch..."

After a moment, the puppeteer stammered, "Your humble and loyal follower is honored to welcome your presence."

"Is there anything... I can do for you?"

The witch's deep green eyes fixed on him, and she let out a low, raspy laugh:

"Then, as the price of my response to you—"

"Can you, for me, draw a skin?"

The hesitant and halting words, as if unused to human conversation for years, brought a terrifying sense of unfamiliarity, yet at the same time possessed an eerie allure.

Dear believer, devote your entire life's blood to fashioning a beautiful flesh for her.

Just as you have always done.