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

The screen begins with Philip grabbing a handful of roasted meat, chewing it with gusto.


"I promise not to leave any descendants. And after my death, to pass the throne to Kafney. If Your Majesty wants to take my head, I can give you that opportunity too… just give me ten years."


On Philip's face, there appeared a sincere, respectful smile.


But his voice, faintly ringing in Thirteen Fragrance's ears, even made him feel a slight itch.


Philip spoke very clearly. "Even if I run away, I'll do it with my chest out, head up, and never look back—"


"Prince Philip… was assassinated last night."


Before Annan, a man with his head bowed and a trembling voice, slowly spoke.


And behind Annan, Victor slightly squinted his eyes.


Annan clenched the tristaff in his hand.


Chapter 431: 1/3 of the Heroes