Then the head laughed, a sound like breaking glass.
The vine suddenly pierced Blore's temple, and a flash of light flashed through his mind amidst the sharp pain:
In the Mesopotamian plains of 3000 BC, he and Si Weijun (or the Sumerian priest who looked like Si Weijun?) witnessed the sky split open and rain down golden rain covered with eyeballs;
"Not because of anything we did."
All the vines suddenly whispered in unison, and the sound waves rippled through Blore's cerebrospinal fluid.
"You volunteered to be the vessel."
The black fog had now engulfed half of the compass, and translucent tentacles stretched out from the fog, each covered with a tiny, blinking mouth.
Broll's left hand began to crystallize, and nebula-like spots of light appeared under the skin.
The dam of memory completely collapsed.
He is now simultaneously the archaeologist Blore, the priest Si Weijun, a 19th-century New England whaler, and a silicon-based lifeform on a gas planet in the Andromeda spiral arm.
"Him" on all timelines is merging, like countless tributaries flowing into the same dark river.
The compass began to rotate in the opposite direction, and when the bronze needle passed a certain critical point, it suddenly turned into a snake shedding its skin.
"Refusing integration will only prolong the suffering."
Si Weijun's face emerged from the black mist, but his mouth was cracked all the way to his ears, revealing not teeth but countless tiny gears.
"Remember that equation you learned in class? It wasn't math at all..."
Before he finished speaking, his eyeballs drooped like melted wax, revealing the swirling Milky Way behind them.
Bloor's (or perhaps Yog-Bloorsoth should be called him now?) spine made a sound like bamboo snapping.
Blore stood at the edge of nothingness, the black, scorched earth crumbling beneath him, the sky twisting and writhing above him. His memories were like parchment licked by flames, the edges curling and charring, the words blurring and melting in the heat.
The smell of dust in the library - he had spent countless afternoons there, the sunlight slanting through the high windows onto the bookshelves, and the dust floating slowly in the beams of light.
The touch of the pages, the smell of ink, the rustling sound of turning the pages with fingertips... now they seem to have been erased by some invisible eraser, leaving only empty outlines.
There were also Nansong Baidi and Ma Tuan - they had practiced in the training room until they were exhausted, sweat dripping on the floor, and their breathing was hot and rapid.
What did Nansong say?
Blore tried desperately to recall her voice, but it was a distant echo, as if through a thick layer of frosted glass.
The four of them attended classes, left classes, and completed tasks together - they had fought side by side, building a defense line in their spiritual landscape to resist external erosion.
But now, those faces are dissolving, like chalk drawings washed away by rain.
He remembered their laughter, their childish fight for the last piece of fried chicken in the cafeteria, and the flickering shadows cast by candlelight on the wall during late-night strategic discussions...but the details were peeling off, like old wall paint, falling into darkness piece by piece.
——He once thought that he would never be able to leave that secluded place in his entire life, until one day, he stood on a high cliff and looked at the city lights in the distance that he had never seen before.
At that moment, he felt that he had finally touched the edge of the world.
He and Nansong really left that place.
Also successfully arrived at this base.
But now, that landscape is fading, turning into a blurred watercolor, covered by something larger and more indescribable.
And "father"—did that man really exist?
Blore remembered the rough warmth of his hands, remembered him teaching him how to hold a knife, how to make a fire in the snow.
But when he tried to recall his father's face, countless overlapping faces appeared in his vision, each of them screaming silently, as if forcibly blended together by some force.
And there were his grandparents, who had been with him for as long as he could remember—they had sat by the fire and told him old stories, about spirits in the forest, about unanswered calls in the night.
Grandma's wrinkles held the secrets of time, and Grandpa's pipe emitted bitter smoke. But now, their figures are fading, like mist blown away by the wind.
"Am I a human?"
Blore looked down at his hands—something moved beneath his skin, like a tiny worm, like something older, more unspeakable, awakening. Was it really blood flowing through his veins, or something more akin to black mist? Was his skeleton quietly morphing, adapting to something inhuman?
His mind was resisting, screaming, trying to grasp the last bit of "human" cognition. But every time he thought he had grasped something, the memory slipped through his fingers like quicksand.
"You were," a voice whispered inside his skull, like a thousand overlapping voices speaking simultaneously. "But now, you are becoming something greater."
Blore opened his mouth, wanting to protest, wanting to roar, wanting to prove that he was still human—
But from his throat came only a chaotic hum that did not belong to any known language.
The truth of the universe was reflected in the newly formed compound eyes: the compass was not a measuring tool at all, but the milk tooth of a sleeping giant.
As the Black Mist completely engulfed the space, Blore understood that all language was essentially a variation of screaming.
His vocal cords evolved into luminous organs, and he chanted the missing chapters of the "Seven Chapters of the Mysterious Lord's Secret Scripture" at the frequency of whale song.
At the moment before complete alienation, a final thought suddenly flashed through a part of the brain that had not yet been contaminated:
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