Chapter Two: My Script Can Come True

“There’s still a group left. Looks like I’ll have to let them die another way. Damn S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Yang Qiu muttered, shaking his head. He closed his eyes and summoned his power.

Within the shining expanse of Yang Qiu’s mental universe, two stars glimmered with a faint light—these were the two scripts he had designed so far. Naturally, due to his lack of experience, the evolution of these scripts was far from perfect.

Script 1: The Birth of the Apostle

Synopsis: As the plague spreads, rumors are born from the void. Under the influence of the abyssal evil within human hearts, the world loses an innocent girl—and gains a vengeful spirit born from the death of rumor. With the eerie eyes bestowed by a malevolent entity, she watches those who shift blame and take lives at will…

Script Evolution Result: Failed

Script Manifestation: The Black Cat (Anne)

The Black Cat is born from the Apostle’s shadow, possessing the power to bypass certain physical laws. It can traverse any shadow and unleash attacks fueled by omnipresent fear. For most living beings, the mind is far more fragile than the body.

Script 2: Annabelle

Synopsis: The rare and beautiful haunted doll, Annabelle, finds its way into the hands of a New York crime syndicate. After its arrival, mysterious and sinister events begin to unfold in the leader’s home. Following a series of deaths and bloodshed, they discover the source is none other than this charming doll…

Script Evolution Result: Passed

Script Manifestation: Annabelle Doll

Infused with a vicious spirit by a strange cult, the doll is harmless most of the time—until it senses a crack in your spirit, until your body weakens. Then, it shatters bones and joints, transforming its victims into dolls like itself. It seeks to prove that dolls are the world’s most beautiful creations. (Note: Annabelle despises wailing, and will remove the organs responsible.)

Evidently, to Annabelle, those two gang leaders—who often vented their rage with violence—fit her standards perfectly.

She is, after all, a kind doll. Once turned into a doll, one will never have troubles again. Unfortunately, the leaders’ anguished cries during the process were unbearable to her.

Thus, Annabelle shattered their throats, stretched their tongues to ten meters in length, and used the tongues as puppet strings to suture and connect their shattered joints. Regrettably, before the process was complete, the leaders’ bodies went cold.

Incomplete puppets who died before the transformation held no value for collection. Annabelle could only return to her shelf, awaiting her next owner.

Currently, her nominal owner was a S.H.I.E.L.D. researcher. When the first leader’s corpse was found, S.H.I.E.L.D. sensed something amiss and raided the second gang. They discovered Annabelle as she returned to her spot and took her into custody.

Annabelle did not resist; a doll should have a master, after all. This time, she simply had a few more potential owners than before.

When S.H.I.E.L.D. took her into containment, Yang Qiu felt an inexplicable relief. Although the hidden rules set before the script’s creation ensured these manifestations could never harm him, he still found the thought of keeping the doll by his side unsettling. Having someone else store it for free was ideal.

As for the gang members who were taken from the hospital by S.H.I.E.L.D., they had naturally been attacked by Anne. Even if they managed to cling to life, they would be doomed to endlessly relive their deepest fears.

Suddenly, an idea sparked in Yang Qiu’s mind—one that could serve as the target for Script Three’s evolution.

A tiny star was born in his thoughts. Compared to its predecessors, this one was insubstantial and ethereal. Only by experiencing various events and fleshing out its script could it truly take form.

With the experience gained from the previous two attempts, Yang Qiu projected his mental energy through his mindscape onto the Blood Hand Gang’s territory. He had to be careful to avoid the magical network that shrouded the city—a construct of the Ancient One. For now, he lacked the strength to challenge them directly. Compared to S.H.I.E.L.D., the sorcerers posed a far greater threat.

Still, Yang Qiu was unconcerned. Recently, Dormammu had invaded Earth, and the Sorcerer Supreme had no time to deal with him. Compared to Dormammu’s blatant invasion, Yang Qiu’s little maneuvers were insignificant.

After settling on a location, Yang Qiu began searching for the protagonist of Script Three among the sea of people. To avoid being corrupted by the power he wielded, he had established a rule for himself: stay away from innocents as much as possible. Thus, the protagonist should best be one of the gang members.

What he needed was a betrayer.

That was not difficult. With their leader dead, the Blood Hand Gang had fallen into chaos. Several first-tier sub-leaders were vying for power, each believing that seizing the top position meant gaining everything they desired.

None of them realized that a mutual enemy was observing their every move from a godlike vantage, watching their little drama unfold.

“Sanders, stop struggling. Haven’t you figured it out yet? While you were scheming, your men were wiped out by mine. Surrender, and maybe I’ll give you a job cleaning toilets,” Denor exhaled a ring of smoke, his eyes fixed on Sanders, who was surrounded by his men.

Sanders glared at the man beside Denor. He didn’t care much about his failure—life in the underworld was a constant gamble. You either kill or get killed, and he had long since accepted that. What he couldn’t understand was why those who seemed most likely to betray him had shown loyalty, while the one he least suspected had turned traitor.

“Sandell, I never treated you poorly. Why did you do this?!”

Sanders stared at his brother, unable to comprehend.

Sandell hung his head and shrank behind Denor, silent.

“Oh? So you want to die knowing why? Do you really want to know? Beg me. Go on, beg me,” Denor said, kicking Sanders to the ground and pressing his boot to his chest, repeating those three words.

“I… I beg you…” Sanders murmured, looking at his arch-enemy.

Denor sighed and spat.

His phlegm landed squarely on Sanders’ face. “How boring. Take him away and do it the old-fashioned way—dump him in the river.”

Having lost interest in tormenting his foe, Denor waved a hand and turned away. Throughout it all, Sandell never once looked his brother in the eye.