An inexplicable uneasiness gripped him. He slowly and with great difficulty squatted down, his fingers trembling imperceptibly. He avoided the notebook cover and only pinched the edge of the charred paper, pulling it out with great care.
The piece of paper was not big, only the size of a palm, and of ordinary texture, as if it was torn from an exercise book.
There were a few lines of words written on it in pencil. The handwriting was a little sloppy, but it carried the youthful exuberance. It was Mu Xinrong's handwriting.
However, what captured Chao Youye's full attention was the meticulously traced, extremely complex geometric pattern on the lower half of the paper. The lines were precise and flowing, imbued with the rigorous beauty of mathematics, yet tinged with an indescribable... sense of mystery.
It is composed of countless nested triangles, circles and strange spiral patterns. The structure is exquisite and complex, as if it contains some profound cosmic laws.
The pattern itself was already special enough, but what really made Chao Youye feel like he was struck by lightning and his blood froze instantly was the small signature written in pencil next to the pattern.
The signature itself is quite ordinary: "Mu Xinrong".
But the last stroke of the character "荣", that long, trailing vertical stroke...
The shape outlined at the end, the unique, cold, inhuman rhythm revealed in the turning of the lines...
It was actually the outline of the icy throne deep in his consciousness, the one where he sat in countless world lines, overlooking billions of lives, and stained with Mu Xinrong's endless blood!
Exactly the same!
“Buzz!”
The mind that had just barely calmed down was like being hit by a mental bomb!
The phantom of the throne that had just been forcibly suppressed, the endless blood, the worship and wailing of billions of dead souls, once again violently attacked the barriers of his consciousness! More ferocious than before, more... with a certain sense of "confirmation"!
This is no coincidence!
A voice, icy cold yet eerily calm, like a final rest, resounded from the deepest recesses of his soul like the tolling of a bell of judgment, drowning out all the chaos and pain, echoing clearly:
"This time...it must end."
The voice was his own.
The tone was cold and lonely, like the eternal black ice, with the indifference of overlooking the world from the throne and... the determination to end everything.
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