The Cycle of Fate

Chapter 181: Physical and Mental Health

The middle-aged man stared at Lumian in terror, unsure of what he had done to provoke him.

He wasn't the one who had been scammed, nor was he a member of the gang controlling this neighborhood. He wasn't even related to those people. So why had Lumian rushed over and started beating him?

And he wasn't even given a chance to explain; for every word he spoke, he was beaten harder!

As his gaze fell on the revolver, the middle-aged man glanced toward his accomplices hiding in the shadows, only to find that they, too, were too afraid to intervene. His heart sank slowly.

He didn't dare to threaten Lumian anymore, nor resist. Trembling, he said, "I... I can't count that much. I don't have that much money."

"You really disappoint me. I'm short 100,000 Ferkins." Lumian smiled as he expressed his regret. "Who taught you the money-counting magic? And who came up with the idea of the God of Disease?"

The middle-aged man swallowed nervously and remained silent.

Lumian calmly opened the cylinder of the revolver, showing the golden bullets inside.

Then, he closed it and pressed the barrel against the middle-aged man's forehead.

"Three, two..." With each number Lumian uttered, his finger on the trigger tightened a little more.

The middle-aged man was filled with panic, terror etched on his face.

If it were anyone else, he might believe they wouldn't shoot him in broad daylight. But this man, who had beaten him so senselessly from the start, might just be crazy enough to pull the trigger.

Just before Lumian could say the final number, the man shouted in fear, "The 'Messenger'!"

"Messenger?" Lumian raised an eyebrow.

Having had his mental defenses shattered, the middle-aged man completely gave up any hope of luck and blurted everything out in one go: "The Messenger of the God of Disease! He found me, taught me some tricks, and told me about the God of Disease. He asked me to help him gather followers. We split the money, half for him, half for me."

Was he a true follower of an evil god, or just a fraud using the god's name for profit? Or perhaps both?

Lumian withdrew the revolver from the man's forehead and gently tapped his intact cheek with it. Smiling, he said, "See? This is how we should communicate, with a proper exchange of information."

Bang!

A bullet flew from the revolver's barrel and lodged into a nearby tree that had been cut down.

"Oh," Lumian said, pretending to be surprised. "Sorry, the gun misfired. I hope I didn't scare you?"

The middle-aged man's heart pounded wildly, and a puddle slowly spread beneath him.

Lumian glanced at him, his smile returning. "What's the Messenger's name? Where does he live? What does he look like? I'm a bit short on cash and would like to pay him a visit."

Meanwhile, Lumian thought to himself: No reaction from that little prank earlier. He really isn't a Blessed One...

The middle-aged man shook his head in panic. "I... I don't know."

Seeing Lumian raise the revolver again, he hastily added, "All I know is that he's tall and thin, with pale skin like he's been seriously ill. His eyes are grayish-blue, his hair black and short, like... like those secretaries rich businessmen have. He comes to see me once a week, but I don't know how to find him."