Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Sudden Enlightenment

Cape Prison sat on an isolated island, with sheer cliffs on three sides—easily defended and hard to assault. In the five hundred years since its construction, not a single escape had ever occurred, earning it a reputation as one of the safest places across the entire continent.

Throughout history, many audacious criminals had attempted to shatter Cape Prison's flawless record. Eighty percent of them abandoned the idea upon seeing the prison's towering walls and formidable watchtowers. The remaining twenty percent, who refused to be convinced, had their rough edges worn down and their escape plans crushed after years of "special treatment" from the Warden and guards.

Yet, here and now, a most defiant prisoner was plotting a secret escape plan.

"The protagonist of *The Shawshank Redemption* spent over a decade digging a tunnel. I could do the same. But that takes too long, and he had Morgan Freeman to help him. I've got nothing to work with..."

In the deepest dark cell of Cape Prison, Layman Vichard crouched in a corner, gripping a straw, sketching on the ground.

He was a young man in his early twenties, with a slender build and a straight back. His silver hair was a tangled mess from lack of care, and beneath the disheveled strands peered out a pair of blood-red eyes.

Had he been well-dressed, he would have been a dashingly handsome man. But in his tattered gray prison uniform, he looked like nothing more than a destitute beggar.

Of course, if a beggar heard such a comparison, he might feel insulted. After all, even the poorest beggar was a law-abiding, God-fearing citizen. This young man, however, was locked away in the infamous Cape Prison!

As everyone knew, those imprisoned here were either blasphemers or purveyors of heresy—each one a cancer on society. Even a passing dog would kick such a person to show its contempt.

"Maybe I should try a more violent approach? I wonder if gunpowder's been invented in this world. One part sulfur, two parts saltpeter, three parts charcoal—I still remember the ratio. The problem is finding the raw materials."

Layman drew a few more lines, then let out a sigh.

"I also need to figure out how to cross the sea. How do I get a boat? And I can't even swim..."

He dropped the straw in dejection, leaned against the cold wall, and stared blankly into the darkness, his eyes lifeless.

It had been ten days since he'd been transported to this world, nine of which had been spent in this sunless dark cell. Starting out in prison—wasn't this some kind of mistake?!

Layman's arrival in this world had an unremarkable beginning: office drone, dropping dead, and then—blink—he was in a new world.

If there was anything unusual about it, it was that he'd woken up in a pile of corpses.

The moment he opened his eyes, he saw bodies lying all around him, each wrapped in black robes, with a thick stench of blood overwhelming him.

Fighting back nausea, Layman struggled to his feet and looked around, hoping someone would explain what was going on—he hadn't inherited the previous owner's memories, and a thorough search of his mind yielded only the name "Layman Vichard."

Voices drifted from nearby.

"Tsk, these cultists are stubborn bastards. They'd rather die as martyrs than surrender. At least leave one alive for us to interrogate!"

"Exactly! We can't even get a confession. Those Inquisition folks are going to gripe again—hey, look! There's a survivor over there!"

Layman froze and glanced down at himself. He was also wearing a black robe, but unlike the other corpses, his was trimmed with luxurious gold thread, and jeweled rings were on his fingers.

A sense of dread washed over him: this outfit... was practically a death sentence!

The two speakers walked over, stepping over the scattered bodies.

They were knights in gleaming armor, with a sun emblem emblazoned on their breastplates. Layman had only ever seen such fully-armed tin-can knights in movies.

Well, no explanation needed—he already had a rough idea of his situation. It seemed the forces of light had just wiped out an evil cult, and he'd happened to wake up in the body of some recently deceased high-ranking cultist.

He hadn't gotten any of the benefits, but trouble was certainly coming his way.

Glancing at the blood-stained swords in the knights' hands, then at himself, completely unarmed, Layman knew there was only one choice.

He raised his hands high and shouted at the top of his lungs: "I surrender!"

The knights lowered their swords, exchanging bewildered looks.

They had fought on battlefields for years—what hadn't they seen? Well, this was a first.

Stubborn heretics who'd rather die than yield were everywhere, but one who willingly surrendered? That was a rare sight.

Fortunately, the knights eventually accepted Layman's surrender and didn't send this wicked straggler straight to hell on the spot.

This wasn't because they had the noble principle of "not killing those who surrender"—rather, as Layman gathered from the knights' idle chatter, according to the regulations of their Dawn Church, interrogations involving heresy could only be handled by the Religious Inquisition. The knightly order had no authority.

If they interrogated him themselves and the Inquisition found out, the knights would be the ones in trouble.

Thank goodness for the complex web of jurisdictional disputes and political infighting among their various departments—it had bought Layman a few more days of life.

He was stuffed into a prisoner transport ship that very night, escorted to Cape Prison, and thrown into the deepest dark cell.

Nine days had passed since.

His only companions had been a pile of damp, moldy straw and a few elusive rats. Were it not for the daily meal delivery, Layman might have thought he'd been forgotten in this prison at the edge of the world.

Clack, clack, clack...

Footsteps echoed outside the iron cell door. Layman recognized the sound well—it was the guard bringing his meal, who came right on time every evening.

"Prisoner 1154! Chow time!"

A small hatch opened at the bottom of the cell door, and a battered wooden bowl was shoved through, spilling watery slop across the floor. Only one type of food was served here: a mixture of water, grain, and vegetable leaves, resembling vomit—and possibly containing actual vomit.

The rats scurried out from nowhere, pouncing on the food with glee, only to scatter moments later as Layman sprang to his feet and rushed to the door.

"Guard, please wait! Can you give me a chance to defend myself? I'm innocent!"

"You repeat that same line every single day. I've heard it a thousand times. Can't you say something new?"

Layman thought for a moment: "...Can I get something else to eat, then?"

"Dream on!"

The guard kicked the iron door hard, and Layman stumbled back a few steps, covering his ears.

"You evil heretic! The prison's already wasting money feeding you people—don't be ungrateful!" The guard then let out a cold laugh. "I'd advise you to enjoy this meal properly. This might well be your last meal before the guillotine!"

"Last meal?" Layman repeated the words.

"Tomorrow morning, the Senior Inquisitor from the Inquisition will arrive by ship. Once they've interrogated you, what do you think is waiting for you?"

The guard paused dramatically for a few seconds, giving the prisoner plenty of time to think.

Layman said urgently, "But I'm truly innocent! I don't even know those cultists!"

"You think the Inquisitor will buy your nonsense? They have ways to make you talk! I'd advise you to confess everything honestly, suffer less, and get it over with."

The guard slammed the hatch shut. His muffled muttering drifted through the iron door: "Come to think of it, should I have someone maintain the guillotine? If it doesn't work when the time comes, the Inquisitor will be furious. Can't have Cape Prison looking bad..."

The voice faded into the distance. The dungeon fell back into deathly silence.

Lyman leaned against the cold iron door, slowly sliding down to sit on the ground.

Tomorrow... it's evening now, which means he only has one night left. Whether it's digging a tunnel or mixing gunpowder, there's no time. What should he do?

This other world is still stuck in the dark Middle Ages. The moment he thinks of the Middle Ages, the Church, and heresy trials, Lyman's mind automatically conjures up the most gruesome tortures imaginable... by then, death might even be a relief to him.

"Shouldn't a typical transmigration come with some kind of cheat code? Why don't I have anything?"

Lyman slammed his fist against the ground in frustration.

"I don't want to die... I can't die! I've died once before, this is my second life, and I haven't accomplished anything yet—I can't just die like this!

"System!

!Old man in a pendant! Anything, come save me!"

The instant he finished speaking, a dazzling golden light burst from Lyman's hands!

The light was so blinding he couldn't keep his eyes open and had to turn his head away, yet even so, he could feel the intense glow through his eyelids.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally dared to open his eyes.

A thick, ornate book had materialized in his hands. Embedded in its mottled bronze cover was a closed eye, and below it, four large characters emblazoned in gold—

—Book of the Evil God.

"This is... my cheat code?" Lyman couldn't believe it.

He still hadn't figured out what this body's original owner had to do with the cult. Maybe this Book of the Evil God, as its name suggested, really was connected to an evil god—one glance and his sanity meter would drop to zero, his mind would collapse, and he'd melt into a writhing mass of flesh...

But then again, it couldn't be any worse than a heresy trial. Lyman figured he'd rather roll the dice with the Book of the Evil God. After all, the patron saint of jailbreaks had stashed his tool inside a Bible.

As the saying goes—"Salvation lies within"!

He carefully pinched the corner of the cover and slowly flipped to the first page.

"Table of Contents"

"Chapter 1: Layman Vichard"

No other words followed.

"My name?"

Lyman was burning with curiosity. His mind was still clear—a good sign that the Book of the Evil God wasn't a threat to him yet.

He flipped to the page with his name on it.

At first, the page was blank, but as Lyman's gaze moved, a line of text appeared on its own, as if an invisible hand were rapidly writing across the yellowed paper.

"Above the gods, there are other gods. Beyond the world, there are other worlds. You were summoned to this world as a god, but something went wrong, you lost your divine power, and now you're stuck in prison."

"...I'm a god? The evil god is me?" Lyman murmured.

In plain terms, it meant his transmigration had glitched, turning what should've been a "max-level veteran back to the noob village" story into a "level-one newbie charging into a high-tier dungeon" one?

"But don't panic. This isn't a downfall—it's a trial. Though fate's path may wander, it always ends up at the same place. Follow the guidance of the Book of the Evil God and reclaim the power that is rightfully yours. When the day of your return comes, the world shall tremble once more beneath your name."

"Listen to the prayers of the countless mortals in this world, and choose the worthy ones to become your Apostles, guide them to pursue their innermost true desires, and forge soul contracts with them."

"Your Apostle will walk further and further down the road of their calling, and that calling will become the stepping stone to your grand ambitions, helping you ascend to even greater heights."

The text stopped there. On the next page, a brand-new line of crimson words appeared, like a bloody gash across the page:

"Now, begin writing your story."