Chapter 149: Meng Siyou’s Shocking Speculation

Chapter 149 Meng Siyou's Astounding Speculation

The "prophet's" face struck Meng Siyou's mind like a heavy hammer, abruptly dispelling the fog that had clouded his thoughts and snapping him back to awareness.

...This was a face that should not have appeared in this dungeon instance.

According to investigations by the Anomalous Affairs Bureau, Yi Fengchu had never been observed entering any instance of the Gods' Amusement Park.

All those in the know speculated on the reason: It was the Narrator's protection over His offspring. He did not wish His child to become one of the challengers, embroiled in endless conflict.

So, who exactly was the "prophet" that had just appeared?

Meng Siyou stood frozen, repeatedly comparing the "prophet's" appearance, stature, and demeanor with Yi Fengchu's in his mind. He was startled to realize that the "prophet" seemed far more mature and cold and razor-sharp—

Unlike the Divine Son, who had grown up in a peaceful society and received an education step by step like an ordinary person, the "prophet" resembled a blade forged through endless battles.

The baptism by blood had polished the blade to a brighter sheen, and the grind of bones had honed its edge to razor sharpness. Even from a distance, a single glance at him sent chills down one's spine, as though a knife were pressed against one's throat.

That was not a temperament Yi Fengchu, as Meng Siyou knew him, should possess.

Thus, even though their facial features were identical, Meng Siyou never even considered the possibility that they were the same person.

With Yi Fengchu ruled out as the answer, Meng Siyou could only conclude:

Who else would the Divine Son resemble?

—Naturally, his father, the Narrator who always lurked behind the scenes, the Lord of Fate.

However... even for blood-related father and son, wasn't it unnatural for them to look nearly identical?

Meng Siyou fell into deep thought.

Amidst the tangled threads of his contemplation, a few sentences flashed through his mind like lightning—an ominous warning he had once heard from the Tenth Seat of his domain:

*'It's good that you maintain your current rank. Advancing further would bring you closer to the deity we serve...'*

*'Approach Him, accept Him... and in the end, become Him.'*

*'The more closely we resemble Him in appearance and essence, the more perfect a vessel we become to contain His power.'*

In an instant, a jolt of electricity ran down Meng Siyou's spine, raising every hair on his body.

He wondered:

Was Yi Fengchu's resemblance to the Narrator truly due only to their blood ties?

Among the many divine offspring in the Amusement Park, Yi Fengchu was undoubtedly one of the most favored and cherished by God the Father—but was that merely because of the deity's supposed "fatherly affection"?

For a distant god, how much weight could such intangible familial bonds truly hold?

Was it possible that the reason Yi Fengchu received such preferential treatment was because he was far more special than any other being—because he held greater value to the Narrator?

—For example, could he be the most compatible vessel for the Narrator, a backup body for divine incarnation?

If so, did the Narrator's timely theophany in Lianhe County's Fengyi Village also rely on Yi Fengchu's existence?

The more Meng Siyou recalled and analyzed, the more plausible his speculation seemed, as though a thin thread had strung together scattered pearls from the past, forming an exceptionally flawless and airtight chain of logic.

His expression grew increasingly grave. He felt as though he had inadvertently glimpsed the hidden intentions of a deity, and a flood of worries overwhelmed him.

Meng Siyou feared not only that he might one day be eliminated for his knowledge but also whether Yi Fengchu himself was aware of these truths.

What if Yi Fengchu genuinely revered the seemingly kind and loving "father" who treated him with warmth? How would he react upon learning that he might merely be a more important tool?

The most terrifying outcome of all would be if Yi Fengchu's consciousness gradually dissolved under the overwhelming force of divine power, vanishing without a trace.

Before the Narrator, even a Divine Son born with divine essence was just as helpless as an asteroid captured and devoured by a black hole...

"...What are you thinking about?"

Having observed the series of complex expressions flickering across Meng Siyou's face, Yi Fengchu couldn't help but ask, posing as Wu Suer.

Meng Siyou hesitated before speaking: "Prophet, tell me if you are familiar with the Lord of Fate's only Divine Son?"

Yi Fengchu was baffled by the sudden question.

He had even considered the possibility that Meng Siyou might suspect he was the Narrator, but it seemed the other man's thoughts had taken a wild left turn...

Wu Suer paused before cautiously replying, "Not very. Why do you ask?"

Meng Siyou seemed to wrestle with his words but ultimately sighed heavily and remained silent.

The trust between him and Wu Suer was not yet strong enough for him to voice those shocking speculations—let alone divine secrets!

He would have to wait until he left the instance and saw Yi Fengchu again to sound out the relationship between father and son...

Having made up his mind, Meng Siyou changed the subject: "After entering the instance, have you always been present in the depths of my consciousness?"

Wu Suer chuckled lightly, mimicking the admiring tone of Meng Na's mother as he teased, "Of course, our 'adorable little angel,' Miss Meng Na~"

Meng Siyou: "..."

How could a high-ranking powerhouse have such a warped sense of humor?

Long-forgotten shame surged back, and Meng Siyou yanked at his ridiculous puff-skirt in frustration, managing a pained grin. "Heh... I should thank you for your timely warning earlier. Otherwise, I might have died as Meng Na."

"By the way, those golden words that appeared before my eyes..."

"My creation," Wu Suer admitted cheerfully. "I prefer to call it—the Book of Fate."

"It records the evolving states of people and objects within a certain scope, predicts the future based on their actions, and compares them with the historical events that once truly occurred here, calculating this region's fate divergence index."

Meng Siyou fell silent for a moment before speaking, his voice strained: "This instance has a corresponding historical prototype?"

He should have realized sooner. The visions of hell he occasionally saw foretold a future where everyone perished...

No wonder he had faced the Narrator unscathed—because the "Narrator" here was merely a ghost of the past!

Wu Suer confirmed Meng Siyou's speculation: "In the true history, everything before your eyes was soon consumed by flames. Almost none were spared—including you—except for the one who would later ascend as a deity."

Meng Siyou slowly clenched his fists, his expression turning solemn.

He clambered out of the bushes ungracefully, his skirt and knees smeared with dirt and broken leaves. The child's delicate skin bore several scratches from the branches, but at this moment, such things hardly mattered now.

Dusting off his skirt, he shook away the dust and asked, "If the Book of Fate's revision coefficient reaches a higher number, can I rewrite this nightmare?"

Though Meng Siyou did not know why the enigmatic presence behind the painting had brought him to this instance, condemning him to relive this history over and over...

He could dimly perceive that this place carried the pretender god's yearning, obsession, and fear.

This replica world feels like a drawn-out, unending nightmare.

"Your actions will determine the future plot developments of this book," Wu Suer said with a smile. "Let's see just how much effort mortals need to expend to rewrite this predetermined fate?"

...

Elsewhere, the "Prophet" accepted an invitation to lunch with the duke's family.

The atmosphere at the table was unusually tense. The "Prophet" quietly observed their words and actions with those frightening golden slit-pupils, with evident amusement.

From beneath the white cloak, several snakes as thick as wrists occasionally slithered out—some swallowing fresh fruits whole, others plunging their oval heads into silver goblets and drinking greedily like siphons, only to be chastised with a quick rap on the head by the displeased "Prophet."

Witnessing this bizarre scene, the surrounding servants lowered their heads, not daring to look directly for fear of letting out startled cries.

The "Prophet" noticed that after barely ten minutes of the meal, the duke's eldest son, Isildur, stood up with a cold expression, nodded curtly to his father, and hurriedly left.

"Please forgive him. Isildur didn’t mean to disrespect you."

The duke managed a pained smile. "He is an excellent boy, but in recent years, our conflicting views have turned him into this brooding, silent shadow of himself..."

"Teenagers are indeed hard to understand," the "Prophet" remarked, resting his chin on his hand and nodding as if in deep agreement, a hint of pride glinting in his snake eyes. "Fortunately, my adopted apprentice has always been sensible and considerate."

The duke, unsure how to respond, changed the subject. "Thank you for your prophecy. So, what does the Iris family have to give you in return?"

The enigmatic "Prophet" paused in thought.

During his silence, the duke grew nervous, nervously turning the family crest ring on his finger, fearing the "Prophet" might make some impossible demand, like the demons of legend.

After a long pause, the "Prophet" finally reached a decision and spoke as the duke's heartbeat quickened:

"What would a fifteen-year-old boy like? Fine garments, a strong steed, or a sharp sword?"

The duke was taken aback, unprepared for such a commonplace request. Tentatively, he asked, "Are you looking for gifts for your disciple?"

"Yes. Bryce is about to turn fifteen," the "Prophet" said. "I had also hoped to discuss child-rearing approaches with you... but it seems I’ll have to figure it out myself."

The duke half-heartedly protested, "...Isildur really was a well-praised boy before."

The "Prophet" smiled faintly and slowly repeated, "Oh—'before.'"

The duke had nothing left to say and sighed wearily.

He felt both relieved by the simplicity of the request and vaguely frustrated by his own family’s state.

Losing his appetite, he set down his fork and knife and turned to a servant. "Have duplicates made of all the gifts Isildur has received since he was fourteen and present them to our honored guest."

A maid nodded repeatedly and was about to leave when a piercing scream echoed from afar, reverberating through the opulent hallway and reaching the quiet dining room.

"What happened?"

The duke immediately stood up, his expression grave as he frowned in the direction of the scream.

The surrounding servants also looked alarmed. At that moment, everyone could faintly sense the ominous aura of an approaching storm.

Only the "Prophet" remained seated at the table, unmoving, not even shifting his gaze, as if he had already foreseen the future.

"I-It's Young Master Isildur—"

A maid stumbled over, her hands and dress stained with glaring blood, droplets even splattering to the floor with her unsteady steps, drawing gasps from those nearby.

She screamed hysterically:

"Young Master Isildur—has killed someone!"