Dimensional Hotel

Yu Sheng struck with meticulous precision.

First, he carefully hammered the Angel Cultist’s left leg with his Wolf Tooth Club, then moved to the right leg. After that, he targeted both arms, repeatedly bludgeoning each limb while avoiding the restraints installed by the Special Affairs Bureau. He continued until the limbs became limp and gelatinous.

At first, the Angel Cultist was stunned by the beating. Then, he started to scream and curse, sometimes emitting noises that didn’t sound human. The shrill, chaotic screeches were layered with an eerie, resonant noise, as though something else lurked within the seemingly human shell—something that tried to break free but was repeatedly beaten back into submission by Yu Sheng.

When the cultist finally attempted to resist or escape, he found himself powerless. His body was shackled by the Special Affairs Bureau’s restraint devices, and his joints were bound tightly. Even his ability to concentrate was disrupted by the neural suppressors implanted within him, making it impossible for him to cast spells.

Occasionally, the cultist’s struggles became intense enough to push against the limits of his restraints and suppressors. In those moments, Irene stepped in. Her Pitch-Black Threads, capable of controlling the terrifying “Wolf Granny” and the Dark Angel’s empowered “**Hunger,” easily subdued the weakened, shackled man.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Yu Sheng finished his work. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he placed the Tetanus Staff aside and sat on the nearby bed, nodding at Foxy.

“Heal him.”

“Understood!”

Foxy eagerly stepped forward. Standing beside the Angel Cultist, she raised her hand and traced a series of intricate, mystical sigils in the air. Then, she placed her hand above the cultist’s head. Her eyes glowed faintly with a golden-red light as the cultist’s grievous wounds began to heal at an astonishing speed.

“Wow, dumb Fox, you’re pretty good at this! You mentioned healing back home, but I didn’t believe you… never saw you use it before.”

“Didn’t need to,” Foxy replied, casting a glance at Yu Sheng with a hint of resentment in her tone. “Irene doesn’t need healing, and the Benefactor is too busy to be healed.”

Meanwhile, the Angel Cultist—nearly unconscious—began to stir. The man, once composed and seemingly transcendent, now lay bloodied and battered, his clothing in tatters. Despite his horrific state, he remained defiant, just as Song Cheng had predicted. His eyes, filled with fury and disdain, fixed upon Yu Sheng. Even now, he showed no sign of begging for mercy.

Yu Sheng appeared unbothered by the cultist’s glare. He picked up the club and approached again, his expression calm.

“Foolish and crude,” the cultist rasped, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth. His words carried a faint mockery. “Do you have any idea the trials we’ve overcome in pursuit of truth? Do you know the hardships our will can endure?”

“I don’t,” Yu Sheng replied, shaking his head. “I’m just doing this for fun.”

In the next instant, the cultist’s briefly startled expression was replaced by another round of pain as Yu Sheng raised the club high.

Three times. Three cycles of healing.

As the healing light finally dimmed, the Angel Cultist once again regained consciousness. His gaze landed on the enigmatic “interrogator,” seated on the opposite bed. The fearsome club rested beside him, and the man’s expression was as calm as ever, his face holding a faint, inscrutable smile.

No questions were asked. None were needed.

The Angel Cultist panted heavily. Though his body had been restored, an invisible wound far more devastating than any physical injury seemed to pierce his very soul, etching itself into the depths of the spirit blessed by the “Messenger.” He stared at the smiling interrogator, desperate to decipher his intentions.

The “Messenger’s” gift of spiritual sight had allowed him to perceive many truths. He had seen through the tricks of every prior interrogator, unraveling the gaps in their hypnotic techniques. He had even discerned the illusions and false memories the Special Affairs Bureau’s agents created through neural stimulation and injected serums. This power had enabled him to resist every interrogation—until now.

Now, as he gazed at the figure seated across from him, he suddenly realized… the figure had vanished.

In its place was a gaping, pitch-black void. Pure, boundless, and unfathomable, the void loomed like death itself.

Floating within the depths of this chasm was a faint smile, laced with mockery. The void expanded in his vision, growing larger and closer until it seemed to engulf the entire world.

Even the whispers of the “Master”—once a constant presence in his mind—were drowned out, silenced by the overwhelming emptiness.

The Angel Cultist panted more heavily, as if a long-forgotten emotion was stirring awake deep within him. Questions began to rise in his mind, quickly magnifying into an insistent refrain:

What does it want? What does this void seek to uncover? What is its purpose?

The void answered, answering the very questions his consciousness posed:

It wants nothing. It needs no response.

The void began to drift closer, floating silently toward him. That stirring emotion within him jolted violently—ah, so it was fear.

Fear, not from the pain of flesh, but from witnessing that utter void, that profound lack of desire. The Angel Cultist abruptly snapped awake to find the void collapsing back into the form of his tormentor.

Instinctively, he shrank back, pulling his neck inward. But in that fleeting second, an ominous warning surged within him: Danger!

It was too late.

An eerie, bone-chilling sensation suddenly overwhelmed him. He recognized this feeling—it was the same coldness from before, when the strange doll had bound his body with her sinister threads. But this time, the cold did not invade his limbs. It pierced straight into his mind and even deeper, into his very soul.

The cultist struggled to lift his head. Through a haze, he seemed to see the floor crawling with “hair,” black threads writhing like living tendrils, creeping toward and into his body. These threads led back to a diminutive figure, a cursed Little Doll, whose scarlet eyes glimmered with a trace of amusement as she raised her hands.

She opened her mouth, silently mouthing words he couldn’t hear: “You’re afraid.”

The next moment, the entire world plunged into darkness.

The bald Angel Cultist collapsed to the ground, suddenly unconscious, as if sinking into a deep slumber.

Yu Sheng cautiously approached, prodding the man’s leg with his Wolf Tooth Club to confirm he showed no signs of waking. Satisfied, he turned to Irene, who was meticulously manipulating the Pitch-Black Threads. “You really managed to drag him in, huh?”

“Of course,” the Little Doll replied, her face lighting up with pride before her expression turned pensive. “Although, to be honest, it wasn’t easy. Forcing people into a dream is usually much simpler for me, but this guy’s mental defenses were nearly flawless. His resolve was unshakable. If not for that brief moment of panic just now, I wouldn’t have had an opening.”

“Well, we’ve been hammering at him for so long. It’s natural he’d slip eventually,” Yu Sheng mused, glancing at the unconscious cultist. As he leaned the Wolf Tooth Club against the bed, he muttered, “Still, I’m impressed he lasted this long.”

Shaking his head, he looked back at Irene. “Anyway, enough pondering. How’s the situation? Is your dream corrosion stable? Can we enter?”

“Almost there,” Irene said, carefully controlling the threads entwining the cultist. She nodded at Yu Sheng. “Lie down next to him. I’ll pull you in. But once inside, be cautious. Don’t make any big moves. He doesn’t realize he’s dreaming yet, and if the dream becomes too inconsistent, he’ll wake up.”

“Got it. I’ll tread carefully,” Yu Sheng assured her, settling onto the small bed and steadying his breath. “I’m ready.”

Sitting at the bed’s edge, Irene raised a delicate hand to touch his forehead.

Her small hand was soft and warm, almost human-like. But the next moment, a sharp chill surged through him. Black threads shot into his flesh, dragging his consciousness into chaos.

In the hazy, surreal void, Yu Sheng glimpsed a cascade of illusions. After a flurry of bizarre and fantastical scenes, his vision settled on a sprawling, intricate “web.” Black threads interwove to form a spiderweb-like structure, at the center of which crouched a shadowy figure with crimson eyes, painstakingly weaving dreamscapes.

Yu Sheng’s awareness was drawn toward the web’s center. He watched as the crimson-eyed shadow lifted two threads, one of which extended from his own perspective. The shadow entwined the two threads together, tying them with a butterfly knot.

“…Was the bow really necessary?” Yu Sheng muttered groggily.

“It looks nice,” the shadow replied in Irene’s voice.

The next instant, Yu Sheng’s eyes opened again.

He found himself standing in a dilapidated warehouse, dressed in unfamiliar clothing. Everything around him was veiled in a faint, dreamlike mist.

Footsteps echoed through the warehouse, their hollow sound slightly distorted. Vague noises hummed at the edge of his hearing, as though emanating directly from his mind.

Briefly disoriented, Yu Sheng quickly regained his composure. He realized at once:

He was now hiding within a fragment of the Angel Cultist’s memory.