Upon hearing this, Theodore froze on the spot, and the anger on his face slowly subsided.
He found a deckchair and sat down, his gaze softening as he looked at Adam's apple. "I remember when we rescued you from the Inquisition prison, you were only seven years old. Your parents and sisters, being of different races, chose suicide to escape the repeated torture by the church, rather than follow the doctrine. And you, without food or water, survived for thirteen days in a cage. When we met, you were like a puppet, sitting amidst the corpses of your loved ones, your body gnawed by rats, not a single piece of good flesh visible..."
As if recalling that hellish past, Adam's apple twitched as he took two steps closer to Theodore: "Chairman, we live in a dark, desperate world where people eat and are eaten. To survive? You must possess the power to rival the darkness! Entrusting everything to others, hoping for their pity, will only lead us to become food for others sooner or later!"
Picking up the manual and pages from the desk, his eyes blazed with boundless fervor. In an unusual tone, he spoke to Theodore: "Do you know what I hold in my hands? These are the stairways to the gates of heaven, the scepter to become the ruler of the world! If we can perfect the technology of the 'Necromancer's Successor,' the 'Relief Society' can change the rules of the world and rule all kingdoms! We... can even become gods!"
Theodore stared wide-eyed at Adam's apple's every move, then shook his head: "You're insane."
There was an indescribable disappointment in the eyes of the man with the throat bone. He reluctantly put down the book in his hand, and his expression returned to calm: "President, there is one last question. I asked it a few days ago, but I would like to confirm it with you again today."
Theodore gave the other person a cold look.
With a smile, the man with the throat bone asked, "Have you really never considered joining the church?"
“I already said! No!” Theodore raised his right hand, pointed to the door, and shouted, “Now, get out of my room immediately!”
He nodded slightly, bowed, and walked out of the room.
As he walked along the road, he took out a handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded the layers of fabric, and quietly lay half a letter that had not yet been burned.
On the letter, the other handwriting had long since turned yellow and black, but the signature was still faintly visible.
"Your dear old friend, Cardinal Abel K. Boswell"
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