Volume 10 Bugs Chapter 31 You Are Not My Dad
Darkness, darkness surrounds me!
The darkness was so dense and heavy, as if it was the only pure element recognized in the world, completely blocking my vision. It looked so confusing, like an endless and vast existence that filled the entire world, but also like a thin curtain that covered my eyes, revealing nothing. I seemed to be in the center of an endless and empty world, being squeezed by the darkness that could not be measured by distance; and it seemed that what surrounded me was just a pure color without any thickness.
Darkness has such power that it makes you feel far away from the world, and yet very close at the same time.
In all the legends, poems and religious texts circulated on the Falvi continent, death seems to have always belonged to darkness. The eternal realm of the dead that inspires infinite awe is a place of eternal and unchanging desperate darkness. There is such a saying in the academic world: the soul seems to be a kind of existence similar to the attributes of light - you know I am not talking about the physical approximation of wave-particle duality, but a kind of... uh... philosophical approximation - therefore, when the soul loses its life, it is also abandoned by all the brilliance of the Supreme God, and can only come to this underworld rejected by light.
So, it seems that, theoretically speaking, I am probably dead.
But...something doesn't seem quite right?
I have experienced death several times. In my experience, death seems to be just a momentary feeling. It seems to be the only powerful force in the world that can isolate the flow of time, and in the consciousness of the dead, the two time points of death and resurrection are tightly linked together, leaving no gap.
The time spent in the process of death seems to be erased out of thin air, making you unaware of its existence at all.
So, what's going on with me now?
I should be dead, but I can realize that I am dead. However, death should be unconscious. Then is the death that I am aware of now the real death?
I think this series of complex paradoxes is giving me a headache, but this brings me to another series of even more headache-inducing thoughts: Can a dead person have a headache? Then: Can a dead person think about a dead person? Can a dead person have a headache? Then the dead person can think about a dead person. Can a dead person have a headache?
I began to understand why people are so afraid of death: no one can bear this desperate darkness and silence. It's only been a few minutes, and I'm going crazy. If this situation will be an endless eternity and the final destination of my soul... I don't know how crazy I will be?
Hmm? Wait! Can a dead person go crazy? Can a dead person realize that he is going crazy...
The Supreme God is here again. I must not think about this question again. Some people say that if you do too much evil when you are alive, you will be cut into pieces and your heart and lungs will be torn out after you die. But God knows, where are you, the mountains of knives and the pots of oil? Compared with the endless torture now, it is simply the luxury suite treatment provided to diamond VIP customers.
"Am I... really dead?" Unable to bear this debilitating dullness, I tried my best to mobilize my "previous" consciousness, trying to find a way to make a sound with the physiological organ that people called "mouth" when I was alive - of course, that thing should have been thrown on my corpse by me.
When we were alive, we called this action "speaking."
Huh? Strangely, I seemed to be able to feel the sound of my own voice using an action that was called "listening" when I was alive.
This is simply amazing!
Just as I was amazed at my unexpected discovery and lamented that death was so wonderful, something even more wonderful happened:
A completely unfamiliar voice came:
"Of course you're not dead."
Really? Me? Not dead? I felt the place that I called "heart" before I died suddenly tighten, and something that I called "blood" before I died seemed to be flowing rapidly, making the place that I used to call skin and blood vessels on my body feel a refreshing heat.
But I soon realized that this was just an illusion. No one wants to die, and no one will happily accept his own death, even if he already knows that he is dead. This subconscious deep in the soul sometimes deceives oneself and makes people hallucinate, as if someone is talking to them. This is probably how schizophrenia comes from.
It seems that being dead for a long time can really drive people crazy.
But since I’m dead, why should I be afraid of going crazy?
"It's just an illusion. It's all an illusion." I told my soul.
"It's not an illusion, it's really me talking to you." The illusion said to me unyieldingly.
Thinking about it again, if I was going to die like this forever, having an illusion talking to me would be a good way to get rid of loneliness - no, it was simply the only and invaluable way. Suddenly awake, I found that I should not reject this illusion, but accept it, acknowledge it, guide it, and let this precursor of schizophrenia thrive.
"Then who are you? Are you the god of death?" I said anxiously, realizing that I might always have to accompany this morbid voice and walk lonely to the end of time. I was afraid that if I accidentally became mentally normal, this hallucinatory voice would be silent and no longer answer, and I would return to the unbearable silence.
"No..." Hooray, the illusion is still there, "...I am neither dead nor a god."
Very good, my hallucination really thought I was still alive.
"Then where are you? Are you far from me? Maybe we can be friends." If I still had a body, I would be smiling bitterly now. Making friends with my own hallucinations? This is a dilemma that I could never imagine when I was alive.
"Hmm... I doubt it. Your wry smile doesn't look like you're trying to make friends..." That voice sounded again. As an illusion split from the depths of my soul, he certainly knew that I was trying to smile wryly. You see, his next sentence revealed a flaw: "...Besides, I'm standing right in front of you."
"If you were right in front of me, how could I not see you?" I asked back.
"...I think if you want to 'see' others, shouldn't you open your eyes first?"
“…”
After thinking about it for a while, I tried to feel the action of opening the two organs called "eyes" in my life. This is questionable whether it was "in my life", because two strong golden halos burst out from the bottom of my eyes, deeply penetrated into the deepest part of my soul, and awakened the vitality in my heart that had just been dormant for a while. After a short dizziness, my eyes, which had been closed all the time, finally began to distinguish some colors and brilliance. Gradually, those blurred blocks of color outlined some bright lines and began to become clear.
Then, I saw an old troll with fangs and a ferocious face standing in front of me, looking down at me lying on the ground. He smacked his dry lips from time to time, revealing his ugly smile, and seemed to be staring at my neck with ill intent, as if he was studying where to bite it off more easily.
"Troll Witch Doctor Carlson" is the name of the soul hovering above his head.
A blood-red name filled with hatred and hostility !
For someone who had just "come back from the dead", this sudden change really scared me. I stood up immediately, hurriedly drew my sword, and carefully pointed the blade, which was already full of gaps, at the troll's chest, staring at him alertly.
My violent reaction was seen by the older troll, who smiled at me and didn't seem to show any desire to attack.
"Hey, don't be so nervous, I don't have any hostility..." He waved his hands and said in a voice that the trolls thought was gentle and kind, but was actually very eerie and hoarse, "...Put down the rag in your hand, it can't hurt me here..."
As he spoke, he slowly walked towards me. This action greatly stimulated me, who was already overly nervous. Without thinking too much, the instinct of fighting against the invaders of the Doomsday Empire for many years drove me forward with a "thrust"...
A bright red word "MISS" floated up from the top of the troll witch doctor's head.
"...It won't have any effect." The troll Carlson raised his head and glanced at it jokingly, then pointed at the mark that had not yet dissipated and finished his words softly.
In battle, the chance of missing a target is not high, but it is common. I followed up with a "slash" and a "hack", each of which was aimed at the troll's shoulder. Something strange had happened. I attacked with all my strength for three consecutive times, but it had no effect. Two more "misses" marks rose from the troll's body, swaying as if mocking my futility.
No matter how tough and resolute I am, it is hard not to panic at this moment. "Slam", "Headbutt", "Heavy Slash", "Continuous Stab"... I used all my skills and applied almost all the combat skills I knew to the old troll in front of me, but all I got was a series of futile attack errors.
I even used the "Blade Storm" that I usually only use when I'm outnumbered, swinging the long sword in front of me to form a sharp blade barrier that can only be seen as blurry light and shadow, using this extremely high-speed attack method to slash the enemy in front of me. In the end, I even gave up the idea of killing this troll in despair, and just hoped that my attack could hit him once - even if it was just a one-time accident. But in the end, all my attacks lost their due effect and I gained nothing.
This is really weird. This ugly old man with blue skin and fangs stood less than a step away from me, motionless. I could even smell the stench from his mouth when he breathed. But he seemed to be non-existent. No matter how fierce and fast my attacks were, they could only brush against the corners of his clothes and disappear into the void, not even scratching his oily skin. This wretched alien old man of only level 47 seemed to be the only messenger favored by the goddess of luck in this world. In the words I can think of, this incredible luck can only be described as a "miracle".
This strange fact frightened me so much that my back was covered with a layer of fine cold sweat, and the chill of despair seemed to penetrate into my heart.
From beginning to end, the troll Carlson had a smile on his face. He didn't seem to feel that his life was threatened at all - which was true - but he enjoyed the game with great interest, as if he was appreciating a clumsy clown performance.
"What? Are you finally tired..." Seeing me dejectedly throw down my sword and stop making futile attacks, the troll Carlson shrugged, "...Then, I hope you can sit down quietly and have a good talk with me. This is very important to us - you and me."
He pointed to a flat rock by the wall, motioned for me to sit down, and then said: "First of all, I have to welcome you here - old Carlson's home. You know, you are my first guest, and I think both you and I should feel honored."
I looked around and it seemed that I was in a closed room in the castle. The bricks and stones were full of cracks and there were clumps of weeds growing between some of the cracks. There were no windows and I couldn't see the outside. I couldn't tell which part of the rubble fortress this was. The strangest thing was that there was no door either. I didn't know how I got here.
There were no windows or doors, but it was very bright. I tried to find the light source that illuminated this secret room, but found nothing. There was nothing in this room that emitted light, and these bright elements seemed to be suspended in the air, illuminating everything around them for no reason.
"So, I was captured?" I calmed myself down a little, lowered my head to think about it, and then came to a conclusion that should be correct no matter how you look at it.
"Prisoner?" The old troll Carlson seemed to be surprised and stunned for a moment, then burst into hoarse laughter. He waved his hands repeatedly: "No, no, no, my friend, believe me, you are not a prisoner. Things are not as you think. You see, in this place, I am just an old troll, not a soldier of the Doomsday Empire, and I have nothing to do with Darendil. So, I hope you don't think of yourself as a righteous warrior fighting against invasion. I am me, you are you, we are just two independent lives, a very simple relationship. In fact, the reason why I invited you here is because I found that you and I... um... are very similar!"
This is simply the worst humiliation I have ever experienced! I am such a handsome, tall and strong young warrior - hey, please don't look at me with such contempt. I said I am more handsome than a dwarf, more handsome than an orc, taller than a dwarf, and stronger than an elf. Do you still have any doubts? How can I be similar to this ugly blue-skinned hunchback with a face full of bone hyperplasia?
At this moment, I really wanted to break out of the door and leave this idiot who had no awareness of his own appearance alone - if I could find the door.
"Forget it, you're not my father." I said unhappily.
"What?" Finally, the troll Carlson put away his confident smile and looked at me in astonishment - to me, it was more like a kind of anger and shame as if his thoughts had been exposed.
"If you want to say that you left behind a mixed-blood posthumous child on the mainland in your early years, who is exactly the same age as me, and you found some souvenirs of father-son recognition on me, and then wanted to instigate me to betray the Continental Alliance, then please don't continue with this bloody plot. To be honest with you, all these things on me were robbed by me, and your cheap son must have been killed by me. If you want to avenge your son, please do it quickly, because I know I can't do anything to you anyway. If you don't want to kill me, then let me go, you know, there is a world out there waiting for me to save." I glared at him angrily with my eyes slanted, trying to "pierce his heart deeply" like those wise heroes in the legends.
The troll Carlson was stunned for a moment, then laughed out loud again. His voice was hoarse and dry - I guess there were some physiological reasons for the troll race, but to a large extent it was just a dry laugh to cover up the failure of his plan. At this time, I had made up my mind: no matter how shocking your words were, I would pretend I didn't hear them. Although I didn't know what he wanted to do and why he chose me, I seemed to smell some kind of conspiracy from all the strange and mysterious events happening around me. If I could firmly believe that everything he said was unrealistic and false, then no matter what tricks he used, it would not work on me.
But I still miscalculated.
The troll witch doctor finally stopped laughing and said only one sentence. But it was just this one sentence that made me unable to refuse, unable to resist, unable to not listen to him, accept him, value him, and believe in him!
He asked me:
"When did you become conscious, Native?"
