Chapter 152: Has This God Always Been So Unpredictable?

Chapter 152: Has this god always been this eccentric?

"What exactly are you investigating?"

The familiar voice came from behind, causing Meng Siyou to freeze in place, momentarily at a loss.

Even though he knew the "Prophet" was merely a shadow from the past, he couldn't help feeling the terror of facing a True God, his legs locking up in terror.

Taking a deep breath, Meng Siyou slowly turned around and stammered, "G-good evening, sir..."

The white-robed Prophet emerged from the shadows, his indifferent expression both familiar and alien to Meng Siyou. Those piercing golden eyes fixed on him like a hawk eyeing its quarry.

The Prophet still held that silver cane. Now at closer range, Meng Siyou could see intricate snake motifs coiling up its length—slender, living-looking serpents winding up the shaft, their heads converging at the top in fluid, lifelike motion, as if swimming through water.

"Good evening."

The Prophet nodded in acknowledgment but didn't let him off so easily. "You've been consciously observing something... You're not the real 'Meng Na,' nor even truly a child—who exactly are you?"

Danger! Danger!

Every nerve in Meng Siyou's body screamed danger. The threat came not just from this past version of the Narrator, but from the entire simulated world.

The moment his identity was questioned, Meng Siyou felt every blade of grass, every brick and stone around him come alive. Malicious intent pressed in from all sides, constricting him like a spider's web.

He suddenly realized—this instance required him to maintain the "Meng Na" identity.

Without this legitimate cover for being here, the entire world would detect, target, then expel him.

The Prophet from history naturally couldn't perceive this.

After a measured silence, he calmly asked an unexpected question under Meng Siyou's terrified gaze:

"This isn't real time, is it?"

"This mansion, this world... even the me standing before you—none are truly real, merely reflections in time. I suppose this is an instance, and you're a player?"

At this moment, Meng Siyou completely lost control of his expression, overwhelmed by utter disbelief.

How could a virtual NPC come alive like this?

Logically, historical recordings should follow predetermined scripts, only interacting within logical limits, shouldn't they?

And how could this True God candidate so calmly deduce the astonishing truth that he was just an imprint?

Is this what it takes to become a True God?!

Meng Siyou stared wide-eyed, looking even more shocked than the Prophet who'd uncovered the instance's truth.

Simultaneously, the hostile attention on him dissipated.

The instance's purge mechanism had been drawn to a far greater game-breaking anomaly, leaving no capacity to focus on a mere player like Meng Siyou.

The very air vibrated through the instance world. Meng Siyou even saw ripples spreading through the air, warping reality itself—except where the Prophet stood, stable as an anchor, his silver-caned figure remaining clear amidst the distortions.

Meng Siyou could almost sense the power sustaining this world awakening.

The pretender deity focused its attention this way, staring at the illusion that had slipped its control, equal parts furious and confused.

The near-divine attention carried intangible pressure, crushing Meng Siyou's body downward, making every hair stand on end, muscles taut.

He nearly thought a battle approaching divine levels was about to unfold before him...

Fortunately, the worst scenario Meng Siyou imagined didn't occur.

After awakening and pausing a few seconds, the entire world quietly closed its eyes again, seemingly unsurprised by the Prophet's deviation from script.

Meng Siyou paused, discerning a certain attitude—

'Ah, if it's Him, then it's not strange. Might as well turn a blind eye.'

As the ripples faded, everything before Meng Siyou regained stability.

"...Are you alright?"

Clearly unaware of the upheaval he'd caused, the Prophet observed Meng Siyou's shifting expressions from shock to fear to relief before inquiring.

His face remained impassive, but the small snake on his shoulder tilted its head in confusion, betraying inner turmoil.

Meng Siyou carefully phrased his plea, "Could you please avoid mentioning... things beyond this 'game's' scope here?"

"Very well. I don't mind playing along with this 'game,' little miss."

The Prophet paused, noticing the flash of discomfort in the "girl's" eyes, and corrected, "Or rather—little sir."

"Pfft."

Meng Siyou swore he heard Wu Suer stifling laughter in his mind!

Logically, he was receiving gracious treatment from a True God—so why couldn't he feel happy about this honor?

Shaking off his irritation, Meng Siyou stood at attention like a soldier awaiting inspection. Pressed back against the wall, he dutifully laid out what he'd discovered to the Prophet.

"So," the Prophet mused, "you're trying to uncover what truly happened between Isildur and his wet nurse?"

Meng Siyou bobbed his head eagerly.

His veteran player instincts told him this undoubtedly concealed crucial investigative leads.

"I see."

The Prophet nodded and turned toward the second floor: "Come."

After a stunned moment, Meng Siyou's eyes lit up with excitement as he followed closely behind.

This echo of a future True God was taking him to meet Isildur!

—After all, who better to explain events than someone who lived through them?

......

"Who's there?"

Hearing the door open, Isildur turned impatiently, "I said I wanted to be alo—"

He choked on his words when he saw the figure in the doorway, leaving him momentarily speechless.

Raised with strict aristocratic education, Isildur's strained relationship with his father hadn't robbed him of basic manners.

Though his attitude toward the church and deities lacked his father's reverence, he fully understood the terrifying power wielded by the strong in the mystical world.

As far as Isildur knew, the bishop of the Natural Hymns Society could reshape mountains and build half a city with a mere gesture. He certainly didn’t believe that the "Narrator," whom his father treated with such cautious hospitality, would be any less formidable than the bishop.

In fact, the old duke had vaguely hinted to Isildur that the Narrator might one day compete for godhood...

Normally, provoking his father or expressing dissatisfaction was harmless, but truly angering such a dangerous figure? Ten dukes couldn’t save him—this much, Isildur understood clearly.

He hadn’t expected the man to visit him so abruptly. The furrow in his brow even dissipated slightly as he asked in surprise, "Narrator?"

Despite arriving uninvited in the dead of night, the Narrator acted like he owned the place.

He gestured for Meng Siyou, who followed behind, to close the door, then strode directly to the sofa opposite the bed, leaning his cane against the armrest with an air of ease.

The Narrator got right to it: "Pardon the interruption, but regarding the unfortunate incident at noon, I’d like to understand what happened."

"..."

Meng Siyou’s eyes widened for a moment—just asking point-blank like this?

Not only Isildur, the person involved, but even he felt caught off guard... This was far too blunt!

Instinctively, Meng Siyou glanced at Isildur and, sure enough, saw the man’s fists clench silently, knuckles turning white, his brow twitching rapidly in shock and fury.

After a brief silence, Isildur ultimately refrained from doing anything reckless in his anger.

He knew that, faced with such an absolute disparity in power, he had no right to refuse the Narrator—just as the servants in his household couldn’t refuse his own demands.

Thus, after his chest heaved violently for a moment, Isildur forced himself to calm down. He gave a stiff bow to the Narrator, clearly unaccustomed to such submissive gestures:

"...Your will be done."

His purple eyes gradually steadied as he sank into recollection:

"Mrs. Ethel, who fell from the stairs, was my nanny. My mother vanished before I turned eight, and ever since, it was Mrs. Ethel who cared for me... To me, she was almost like a second mother."

"This noon, I left the dining hall early to handle some matters in the study, but I encountered Mrs. Ethel on the stairs."

Here, Isildur frowned, his expression puzzled. "To be frank, she seemed off at the time."

"She kept digging at her eyes hard with her fingers, reddening and swelling the skin around them, her nails nearly piercing her eyelids."

"Worried she might have contracted some eye disease, I took her hands and urged her to stop, suggesting she see the doctor."

"But then—she suddenly snapped! She gripped me tightly, pushing my hands to her throat, screaming for me to... to..."

A flicker of pain crossed his eyes. Isildur shut them briefly before continuing hoarsely, "She begged me to kill her—right then."

The Narrator mused, "You wouldn’t have agreed to such a bizarre request easily."

"Of course not! She was my nanny!"

Isildur’s face twisted in anguish. "I thought she’d gone mad—and we were in the middle of the stairs! It was dangerous, so I tried to lead her back to solid ground, but she kept struggling... until she missed a step..."

"And then came the scene you saw," he added bitterly. "The future heir of this family, now an infamous killer!"

"Even locked in my room, I can almost hear the whispers through the walls, speculating about my sins..."

Rolling his cane between his fingers, the Narrator asked, "Did she say why she wanted you to kill her?"

After a pause, Isildur replied uncertainly, "She mentioned... 'She’s always watching me'?"

He clearly hadn’t taken the words seriously, dismissing them as the ravings of a disturbed mind.

—Mrs. Ethel had raised him. Of course she’d always been watching him.

"No," the Narrator chuckled softly, shaking his head. "What a curious mix-up..."

"I suspect the 'she' Mrs. Ethel referred to wasn’t herself."

Pausing, he added in a voice light, almost teasing, "Given how she kept rubbing her eyes before dying—perhaps another 'she' had been watching you all along, through Mrs. Ethel’s own eyes?"

Isildur went pale.

If Meng Siyou had to describe it, Isildur now looked like someone who’d just heard a campfire ghost story.

A heavy silence fell over the room. As the Narrator voiced his theory, a chill settled over the room.

Meng Siyou couldn’t help but hug his arms, feeling goosebumps rising.

Only the Narrator didn’t bat an eye, rising smoothly and tapping his silver cane lightly toward Isildur. "Only joking. Forget I said it."

"Goodnight."

Following the Narrator out, Meng Siyou dutifully closed the door behind them while grumbling to himself:

*You spring something that creepy so casually and expect him to sleep peacefully tonight?!*

Back on the first floor, Meng Siyou automatically asked for the next step: "What should we do now?"

The Narrator glanced down at him, with a hint of amusement. "It’s late. Someone your age should be asleep."

Meng Siyou: "...Oh."

*Does this god ever play by the rules?*

He couldn’t help but wonder—had Yi Fengchu been bundled off to bed like this by the Narrator when he was little too?