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

Unable to evade, unable to defend... the opportunity to attack was likely to come only once.


Either both would fall simultaneously... or the one who drew quicker would easily take down the one who drew slower. The one who had already taken damage was essentially without any chance to launch an effective attack.


The tragedy writer, almost dancing with excitement, shouted, "A ten-second countdown, at the very end—"


He said, while stretching out his hand.


A stream of light flashed through his hand—a plain and unadorned pistol appeared in his grasp.


It was the weapon that had assassinated the ruler of the Union Kingdom when pistols were first invented, later offered as a sacrifice to the tragedy writer.


"After you hear the gunshot, you can attack freely!"


Like someone, elated to be a referee, watching a race.


Chapter 466: So Vladimir Gave Up Thinking (Combined Chapters)