026: Knowledge Pursues Man
The frenzied Bizarro Sorcerer, still under the control of the Spirit Body Threads, slowly and unnaturally turned his head.
"What... is happening?"
Confusion gripped him. The Worms of Spirit that had been pouring from his body moments earlier now lay still.
The manipulation of the Spirit Body Threads had stalled. Silence descended once more. The marionettes chanting "Miracle!" seemed suddenly very, very far away.
Everything froze.
"What... is this?"
His consciousness had been wrenched to an unnatural height, forcing him to observe his own body from above—a body currently descending into madness from forcibly manifesting its Mythical Creature form to resist the threads.
Before him stood—
The pitch-black armor, likely a demigod-tier sealed artifact of the Death Pathway.
The ghostly tome, wielded by what he'd assumed was a Scribe but now recognized as a Traveler.
And then, the Marionettist.
Except—
The Bizarro Sorcerer's thoughts stuttered.
Where the Marionettist should have been, there was now only pure whiteness.
No—that wasn't quite accurate.
It was more like whiteness constructed from countless mystical symbols, layer upon layer of esoteric sigils compressing into a single, overwhelming hue.
And that mass of white—
His spiritual intuition screamed.
"Don't look. Don't look."
"You'll die. You'll absolutely die."
For a demigod of the Seer Pathway to feel such primal terror, what could possibly lurk within that whiteness—?
The warnings made him desperate to break free. Just a little more effort, and he could sever the threads' control—
He could still escape.
He still had a chance.
But then—
From within the whiteness, something gazed back at him.
And then, knowledge flooded his mind.
The first thing forced into his consciousness was a potion formula:
"Sequence 3: Scholar of Yore."
"Main ingredients: One pair of Eyes of a Hound of Foresight, One Atomized Heart of a Fog Wolf."
"Supplementary materials: 100ml of Hound of Foresight blood, 30g of Fog Wolf frost crystals, extensive authentic historical records."
"Advancement ritual: Completely sever ties with reality for at least 300 years. Only after becoming history yourself, no longer belonging to the current era, may you consume the potion."
A Sequence 3 potion formula for the Seer Pathway?
The Bizarro Sorcerer was ecstatic—especially as additional knowledge followed: detailed information about Hounds of Foresight and Fog Wolves, along with this sequence's abilities.
Everything he needed.
But before he could fully memorize it, another formula crashed into his mind:
"Sequence 3: Ferryman of the Death Pathway."
"Main ingredients: ..."
"Supplementary materials: ..."
"Advancement ritual: ..."
"Core abilities and related knowledge: ..."
Why was he receiving Death Pathway secrets? Confused but opportunistic, he tried memorizing it anyway—such knowledge was barter currency among demigods.
Yet before he could finish—
"Sequence 3: Wanderer of the Door Pathway."
"Main ingredients: ..."
"Supplementary materials: ..."
"Advancement ritual: ..."
"Core abilities and related knowledge: ..."
The Bizarro Sorcerer soon realized something was terribly wrong.
The speed of transmission accelerated. At first, the knowledge had flowed steadily—but now it surged exponentially faster, the volume swelling uncontrollably.
Every symbol flashed. Every byte of information hammered into his spirit at a horrifying rate.
Potion formulas. Rituals. Ancient secrets. Forbidden truths.
More. Faster.
A tidal wave of knowledge crashed over him.
"No—wait—"
"Stop! STOP!"
But the deluge from the white entity only intensified, now laced with deeper, stranger, more abominable things.
"The Celestial Worthy of Heaven and Earth for Blessings."
This concept shattered his mind.
What was the Celestial Worthy?
"The Lord of the Mysteries."
The... Lord of the Mysteries?
Unnoticed by him, his spirit had begun distorting.
Layer upon layer of mystical symbols plastered across his being like patches. His spirit grew heavier, saturated with infinite knowledge, until he too began bleaching white.
He was going mad.
His body split open.
Literally.
Worms of Spirit erupted in their death throes—bursting from his skin, eyes, ears, mouth—their surfaces now overwritten by alien sigils.
He understood something then.
Something gleaned from that bottomless well of knowledge.
But he would never speak of it.
Before the Spirit Body Threads could fully claim him, the Bizarro Sorcerer perished in the most grotesque way possible.
Even the theater's "hands" manipulating the threads seemed to pause in shock.
---
Twenty-five seconds remained.
Having used the Bizarro Sorcerer as his first test subject, Don now turned his gaze to the threads controlling Owen and Olsen.
Through his own ensnared threads, he executed a countermeasure far more violent than the Bizarro Sorcerer's resistance.
"An angel's rank can resist pollution from the Outer Cosmos."
"But a dead angel?"
"Can it withstand the weight of infinite knowledge?"
The Miracle Invoker—a former Seer—stood surrounded by marionettes, clutching a crystal ball with trembling hands. The elderly woman looked utterly lost, unable to comprehend—let alone warn against—what was coming.
Don seized Owen and Olsen's Spirit Body Threads.
The distorted, maddening whispers that followed immediately triggered signs of loss of control in both men—but Don had no time to address that now.
The System's current state lasted only thirty seconds. Each additional second would cost 1,000 knowledge fragments—a reserve he'd spent years accumulating.
[Host, knowledge can also be transmitted through Spirit Body Threads.]
These threads were the Marionettist's gift—and all of them led back to the theater's core.
No amount of marionette-swapping could change that.
(End of Chapter)