Klein's pupils widened instantly, and instinctively he lowered his gaze to the weathered long table before him. There, four "Cards of Desecration" were folded over, their reverse sides bearing slightly different patterns. At this moment, he felt a mix of relief and trepidation—like he had been wandering along the edge of the abyss, blindfolded, circling several times without falling. If he had been solely focused on gathering the "Cards of Desecration," collecting all twenty-two of them or securing the "Mother" card, in line with his habit of embracing diverse cards and acquiring corresponding titles and attributes, he might now have already been infiltrated by the "Fallen Mother Goddess," unknowingly nurturing something within him. Yet, I am no Roscel, even with the "Mother" card. It would hardly accommodate me. Moreover, to keep the deities from discovering it, the "Sacred Profanation" card is exceedingly difficult to gather—almost impossible to collect. This appears to be a casual arrangement by the "Fallen Mother Goddess." Should anyone不幸 receive the "Mother" card, they would become a persistent threat to this world. Caine withdrew his gaze and continued to observe Roscel Gustav seated on the iron-black chair, through his own "stand-in paper figure." At that moment, Roscel's body slightly lifted, his voice shifting between low and resonant and high and vibrant: "All things possess divinity. 'At first, they were alive—living within each of us!' " Caine's brow furrowed slightly, uncertain whether the words now being spoken belonged to Roscel, or to the crimson moon within him. Regarding this secret, he not only had a certain understanding already but had also personally experienced and lived through it. Now, it no longer strikes him as startling or frightening; instead, it recalls the teachings of the aurora faith he had previously encountered: they preach that the Divine is present everywhere, dwelling within every living being, thus endowing all things with a sacred nature. When this sacred nature becomes sufficiently rich, it can evolve into an angel. The current deities, in fact, are merely more powerful angels. For ordinary people, as long as they grasp that the essence of life is a spiritual journey, consciously cultivate and strengthen their spirit, discover their own sacred nature, and unite with other sacred natures, they too can transcend the mortal body and become angels. At first, he merely thought that Aetheria’s sect had a well-structured, comprehensive esoteric and theological system, on par with the established church. Now, however, he could begin to uncover the truths hidden beneath those words… Indeed, that makes sense, though the question remains: after incorporating so much divinity, does he still remain himself? Could the "True Creator" have intentionally embedded one of the world’s deepest secrets—namely, the underlying pollution beneath the earth and its gradual erosion into the original vessel of resurrection—within his doctrine, without risking that some devoted follower might suddenly awaken to this revelation and be transformed into one of the first containers of revival? The "Hangings" truly seems a bit mad—his rationality isn’t always online. Klein murmured these thoughts to himself, waiting for Roscel to speak further. A few seconds passed, and Roscel, who had been oscillating between fading into sleep and emerging anew, settled back into his dark iron throne, took a deep breath, and remained silent. Klein then directed the paper figure to speak: "Of all the things you just said, which should I believe, and which should I watch out for?" Rossel chuckled. "Think about it yourself. 'Hah,' isn't that precisely the style of your 'seers'?" He didn't wait for Klein's reply, continuing on his own: "When I was crafting the mask of 'Pale Death,' I noticed something: the fourth-century Death God may not have fully perished yet, and there are several resurrection clues left behind—some of which might be connected to that 'River of Eternal Darkness.' Hah, clearly, the Death God isn't going to be that easy to kill..." Pausing, Rossel glanced down at Klein on the platform. "Indeed, only those who choose the paths of 'Seer,' 'Apprentice,' or 'Thief' can enter the 'Source Keep.' I realized this fact too late—too late." "I don't know whether you'd like to become an Ancient One, nor if there's any ritual required—I can only tell you that becoming an Ancient One is certainly more dangerous than becoming a god, perhaps many times more so. Maybe the very entity that preserved us and gradually released us into reality is already waiting for you there. "My only suggestion is, before you attempt this, speak with the Lamp Spirit within the 'Wishing Lamp.' "The Lamp Spirit?" Using His grudge against the Heavenly Sovereign to gain some assistance? Kline nodded gently. "Very well." Upon hearing his response, Rosel sighed and smiled. "If you truly manage to become an Ancient One, I'd be grateful if you could save me—only an Ancient One can stand against another Ancient One." "With that, he paused, his speech noticeably slowing down: 'If even becoming the old you can't fully free me from the contamination of the "Primordial Moon," then you must remember to erase me, destroy this mausoleum, and establish a new "Black Emperor"—so that I will never have the chance to rise again...' The light within the mausoleum dimmed slightly once more. Kline silently nodded for two seconds, then said, 'I will not forget.' Rosel fell into silence, and only after a few seconds did he chuckle self-consciously, 'Of course, before that, you'll need to save me several more times.' This humor did not lift a smile from Kline; instead, it deepened his sense of weight, leaving him unable to speak." Rousseau did not pursue the topic further, but rather recalled: "My wife has been gone for a long time. I'm certain all my mistresses have found their own endings. I'm sorry for that—I never truly loved them. I only cherished their beauty and enjoyed the pleasure they brought. I have no children by birth. That is something a remarkable person can speak to with authority. As for the time before I became remarkable, I believe my wives, like myself, only sought the beauty and vitality of youth, enjoying the pleasure without creating any burdens for themselves. My eldest son, Charles, must have passed away many years ago—how many descendants he may have left behind, I don't know. My second son, Bonaventure, if nothing unforeseen happens, is now undoubtedly an angel. My feelings toward him are complex: on one hand, cold, disappointed, even resentful; on the other, I still occasionally find myself quietly concerned. I remember when he was young, in his first few years of life—he was truly endearing. As for my eldest daughter, Bernadette, you have already met—don't you find her very beautiful?" She was always beautiful, well-mannered, intelligent, respectful to her father, caring for her younger brother, and thoughtful of her mother. At times, she was particularly straightforward, appearing a bit naive—so much so that on several occasions, when I secretly cheated while playing chess or games with her, she never noticed. This temperament made it difficult for her to accept certain things I did later on. Of course, now I can attribute all of that to the "Primordial Moon"—blame it on its pollution. In that respect, I must thank it. "I don't know what stance to take when I ask you for something, since I've never helped you, nor do I have any close relationship with you. We simply share the same era and place, with only a modest sense of kinship." Hearing this, Caine said in a low voice: "Your journal has been immensely helpful, enabling me to acquire advanced knowledge even when I was young, thus avoiding many dangers and allowing me to focus my efforts with greater purpose." "There's also the matter of the 'Sacred Violation Cards,' which played varying roles at different stages." "Could we perhaps avoid mentioning the diary?" Roscelle cleared her throat. "I did, in fact, intentionally leave messages for the next 'transcender,' though I'm not entirely certain whether you understand any particular language." "Have you gotten married? Do you have any children? How old are you?" Roscel launched three questions at once. Great Emperor, how do you act like a neighborhood housewife? Klein shook his head and gave a concise answer: "No." Roscel fell silent once more, and only after a moment did he say: "You're of my generation—Bernadette should call you Uncle Zhou." "Hmm..." Roscel's tone unexpectedly carried a touch of pity as he spoke: "Since arriving in this era, I initially treated all of this as a game, enjoying it immensely. But occasionally, I find myself recalling my hometown, recalling the past that shaped most of my character and interests." The more years I live, the more often this feeling arises—like fallen leaves always return to the roots of the tree. Yet I still have my daughter, my wife, two sons. There are still many things that bind me to this world, a certain sense of belonging. As for you—I can feel your loneliness, that deep-rooted solitude seeping from your very bones. "Speaking of this, Roscel suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia: "If we could still be living in that original era, it would be wonderful. I'd go to work every day on time, occasionally work overtime. Whenever I had spare time, I'd take my daughter to her extracurricular classes, pick her up, bring her home, and always remind my wife about the things she needed. On weekends, I'd either go out with her, visit her parents, or go to my parents' house to spend time with the elders. When life finally wore me down, I'd use your invitation as an excuse—gather a group of men, sit down at a corner table, eat some skewers, drink a few glasses of wine, boast about our achievements, complain about our superiors, reminisce about our youthful days, and gently urge you to find a girlfriend. By the next morning, after the wine had worn off, I'd feel refreshed and ready to face life once again." His figure swiftly faded, seeming to vanish from the present world, leaving only a faint, wavering shadow lingering upon that iron-black throne. Roserel Gustave returned to eternal slumber.