Not praying for ten strings

The Night Has Come, and kermesinus moon ascends in the sky.
Hoarse whispers flow at the street corners, and brass steam machines spew out bloody mist.
Your brain is singing a hymn, eyes are chanting a melody.
Skin cracks, and flesh buds swell.
Amidst the Mist, the wall of flesh that has devoured thousands of corpses wails endlessly—
"Weep not, our players don't bite, they just want to play with you."
Annan, the lone strategist, the top player, the savior of the mist-covered continent, the leader of the Thirteen Saints, the friend of the Twelve True Gods, the king of pioneers, "the Just", the Gatekeeper of the Fourth Calamity, the uncrowned deity, advised kindly.

Super Righteous Player

Victor pondered briefly before quickly replying, "Even a common person, with only one head, can survive."


"What method specifically? How long can they survive?"


Victor paused, "Do you mean to say, His Highness Philip isn't dead?"


He had already made a deal with the tragedian... He was destined to die in a grand tragedy as a sacrifice to please the tragedian.


And this scene, if called a "grand tragedy," was far too sloppy. Annan was more inclined to believe in the possibility that Philip wasn't dead yet than that the tragedian had hastily concluded.


Annan's brows furrowed slightly as he drew back the curtain and looked out the window.


The news of Philip's assassination had clearly not gotten out yet.


Because the density of people outside had more than doubled, and the pace of those coming and going had quickened a lot, no longer leisurely but much more tense and serious.


Chapter 412: The Ultimate Winner?