Moonlight filtered through the clouds, illuminating the melting snow and the mirror-like puddles surrounding it. Beneath the exquisite church dome lay nothing, and the shadows of the surrounding buildings remained lifeless. In the split second before a thin cloud passed over the full moon, beneath the blooming light, Nixon Evelyn saw the Saint Martin bird soar over his head like a sword, trembling and tearing through the night sky before turning its pointed head and screaming away into the distance.

Like a yawning abyss, a gate suddenly swung open. A dark red carpet stretched from beneath my feet to the limit of the light. A blurred statue stood at the intersection of light and darkness. A withered, emaciated man huddled before it, prostrating himself and weeping. Intermittent sobs echoed through the empty church, resonating like a trumpet.

Nixon was conscious at this moment. He recalled how he had relaxed along the way and came to this building he had never visited before. The fear of the earth being swallowed by the moonlight in his dream once again came to his mind.

But the two satellites of Keminting Town were still hanging in the sky, so he did not choose to retreat to the dark and silent road. Instead, he walked into the church cautiously like a person who was invited to a banquet for the first time.

The man kneeling before the statue seemed unaware of his sudden visit.

When Nixon walked to the center of the church, he was heard crying and apologizing to someone: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that... But I couldn't help it... I was the executioner who deserved to be punished, and I was the first to pick up the butcher knife..."

"Can you forgive me? Please forgive me... They forced me to do that. I couldn't make up my mind to kill my daughter. If she didn't die, she would be a sword hanging over my head... They knew my secret, so I had no choice but to sell you out to the Griffin family—"

Hearing the familiar term, Nixon pricked up his ears out of professional habit, but the man suddenly screamed at this moment:

"Ahhhh, don't come over here!! It's my fault, I've already apologized! Please don't torture me anymore, please! Please! I can go and apologize to Commander Igor Sullivan! He can do whatever he wants to me! Please don't do this again, uh ahhhh!"

The commentator took a step back in shock, the hairs on his arms standing on end. The vaguely familiar man he saw screamed incessantly, writhing on the ground as if in immense, unbearable agony, clutching his seemingly unscathed body tightly, even knocking over a nearby wooden chair in the process. The chair thudded to the ground, while the statue in the shadows remained impassive and unfeeling.

Moonlight once again shone through the stained glass window, illuminating the man's tangled brown hair and twisted face. Reflecting on what he had just said, an idea suddenly struck Nixon, and he muttered to himself in disbelief, "Richard Tollem...? Why..."

"Please... please..." Richard Tolheim was still praying to the unknown existence in tears. He seemed to have completely given up hope of living. "Please kill me. I know that the mistakes I made can only be washed away by death. Please let me go and let me go to hell..."

At this moment, the emergency candles on the walls on both sides of the church were suddenly lit.

The orange-red flames instantly drove away the darkness, and Richard Tolham's profile, wet with sweat and tears, was illuminated by the candlelight. He trembled and buried his head in his arms, as if he was in a court of justice, being burned by raging flames.

The bright places become brighter.

The shadows hidden in the corners also become darker.

Nixon was speechless, feeling a chill down his spine and nearly falling to the ground. Only now did he realize that hundreds of human-like and insect-like skulls were hanging straight from the ceiling of the church with thin wires. They lay motionless in the windless environment, their slightly yellowed eye sockets all aimed at Richard's position, like a group of silent juries.

On the long table directly in front of the statue lay a coffin covered in roses and broken bones. Amidst this pile of white bones, whether human or not, lay Bishop Leopold of Keminting, his eyes closed, his chest motionless.

- Given Richard Tollem's current miserable condition, Nixon could not deceive himself and say that nothing had happened to Bishop Leopold and he was just falling asleep.

His pupils were dilated, his breathing was rapid, and the muscles in his arms were trembling for no apparent reason. Nixon took a deep breath, clasped his cold wrists tightly, and felt the slippery sweat on his palms. Finally, he was forced to cast his gaze towards the location of the "statue".

It is not a statue of a deity at all.

In the light of the fire, Nixon found Richard Tolrum kneeling in front of the unknown being that had replaced the statue.

He wore a black robe resembling raven feathers, the corners of his robe like claws emerging from chaos, spreading and eroding the intricately patterned floor tiles. Nixon's eyes shifted uncontrollably upwards, from his pale, bony fingertips to his bony neck, and finally to a face he had never seen before anyone before.

"Hello." Azathoth said softly.

How can I use words to describe that appearance that does not belong to a human?

Nixon pondered in a daze—His black hair blended into the night, and half of his face, indistinguishable from a human, was so beautiful that one could not help but want to worship and kiss it. The other half, however, was like a creature from the deep sea, possessing an undeniable beauty yet an indescribable horror.

It was like a flash of inspiration from a masterful artist, blending heaven and abyss in his mind, creating a vision that was as close to reality as possible. Nixon saw feathers like bird wings sprouting from half of its skull, along with the sharp, jagged spine of a Zerg. Where its jaws should have been, pitch-black tentacles clung to it, veiled in unknown crimson veins, like the fingertips of a demon parasitizing human flesh.

Even more incredible was that, amidst this chaos and disorder, a pure white rose blossomed. Its pistil didn't seem out of place among its evil companions, and it blossomed with vigorous vitality amidst the decay.

Nixon barely heard Him speak a greeting to him in human language.

He took a few steps back dizzily, leaning on the tables and chairs in the church to maintain his balance, and responded incoherently: "It's... you... that Richard Tolème and Bishop Leopold..."

When he uttered these two names, he didn't know if it was an illusion, but a red light flashed in the other person's human eye, just like the blood flowing from the center of the moon in Nixon's dream.

"They are not dead," Azathoth said. "You have heard Richard Ptolemy confess his crimes before me."

"He should be judged among you humans."

"He... he was coerced into fabricating evidence to frame Igor because of his past misdeeds." Nixon's years of professionalism and concern for his friend sustained his rationality at the moment. "What did Bishop Leopold do?"

"Leopold's child, while on a business trip to the border, was persecuted by a passing Zerg army and tragically died in a foreign land," the god before him replied. "Out of revenge, Leopold exploited his position and connections to imprison Zerg captives, under the pretext of 'extracting the best genes from both humans and Zerg.' He then used them to breed human-Zerg hybrids, who were burdened with a tragic fate from birth."

"Private communication between humans and the Zerg would be considered treason."

"Sixteen years ago, Richard Tollem was bewitched by Leopold and gave birth to a girl. However, after he came to his senses, he chose to escape and only recently saw the child for the first time."

"So those people are using this as evidence?" Nixon said in shock, "because he once had a mixed-race child with the Zerg?"

"Given your profession, you should be more aware of the psychology of your own kind."

Azathoth looked down at him condescendingly: "Fear, disgust, regret, worry about the future, the ambition to advance further... it is the easiest thing to push a person astray."

"...I understand." Nixon lowered his eyes, not daring to look directly at that face again, not even daring to recall it in his mind. Fear and excitement coexisted in his heart at this moment. "What do you want me to do?"

“Do what you’re supposed to do.”

—If you still consider Igor Sullivan a close friend.

After saying this, the candles on both sides of the church flickered, and it seemed that they would soon return to complete darkness.

Nixon Evelyn suddenly realized a key point at this moment - during the conversation, his left hand had been tightly gripping his right wrist, but he did not feel any pain at all!

"I have one more question for you...!" He asked without hesitation before the surrounding flames completely died down. "Am I dreaming now? Are you a real god?"

As soon as he finished speaking, Nixon's eyes went dark.

The next second, he gasped, opened his eyes, and sat up in bed. His colleague Mike, who was standing nearby, was startled awake by his violent movements and asked vaguely, "What time is it... Why are you awake so early today?"

As the sky began to turn pale, Nixon stumbled out of bed and drew open the curtains. He saw the black wings of the St. Martin bird spread out, splitting the silvery-white full moon still hanging on the horizon into two, drawing a sharp curve.

Then he lowered his head and found that the pain in his wrist was coming continuously - Nixon's left fingers kept twitching because of excessive force, and the wrist bone of his right hand showed a blue-black color.

"I had a dream..." He answered his colleague's question softly, as if afraid to disturb anything. "No, I should say, I dreamed of a reality."