The chaos was a shield. The turbulent data streams emanating from his Prayer collective, the elevated cognitive entropy—it all formed a perfect smokescreen, behind which the infinitesimal leak of potential continued undetected. Li Fan had traded his kingdom's blissful peace for a fortress of statistical noise, and within that fortress, his secret power grew, drop by stolen drop.
But a fortress under constant siege is a draining place to live. The perpetual strain of maintaining the viral script, the grief of watching his people's simple faith become tinged with unconscious unease, and the ever-present fear of Xuan Zhang's next, more penetrating audit—it weighed upon his Divine Spark like a leaden cloak. He was a gardener poisoning his own soil, hoping a single, pure flower might eventually break through the toxic ground.
It was in this state of exhausted vigilance that the Abyss chose to speak again.
This was not another cryptic image. It was a direct, resonant frequency that vibrated in the space between thoughts, bypassing his divine senses and speaking directly to his core consciousness. The voice was not a sound, but a cascade of ancient, cold impressions.
We see your struggle, Little Thief, the presence communicated, its meaning forming directly in Li Fan's mind. You chip at a mountain with a needle. We admire your precision. But the mountain does not notice. It merely settles, and your needle is buried.
Li Fan did not respond with words. He projected a single, focused concept back along the resonant frequency: Observation. He was neither welcoming nor hostile. He was a scientist acknowledging a signal.
A wave of chilling amusement echoed back. Your 'Observation' creates ripples. The Warden's eyes are upon you. You cannot move a single stone without him charting the shift in the landscape. You need a storm.
Storm brings destruction, Li Fan projected, his mental tone flat, cautious.
Storm also brings cover, the Abyssal presence countered. A great wave can move the seabed, and none will notice a single pebble is missing. We can be that wave. We can pull the Warden's gaze so fiercely, his instruments will be blinded. And in that blindness, you could steal not drops, but handfuls.
The offer was as clear as it was terrifying. The ancient being in the Abyss was proposing an alliance. It would launch a major offensive against the system, a distraction on a cosmic scale, and in the ensuing chaos, Li Fan could accelerate his theft exponentially.
And your price? Li Fan sent the thought, already knowing the answer.
The lock you pick… you will turn it for us as well, the presence replied, its meaning chillingly unambiguous. It wanted access. When Li Fan found a way to break the system's control, it expected to walk through the door he opened.
It was a bargain with a primordial devil. He would gain the freedom to act, but potentially unleash a horror that could make the system's cold order seem like a paradise in comparison.
I do not make bargains with forces I do not understand, Li Fan finally responded, cutting the resonant frequency with a surge of will.
The connection severed, but the silence that followed was different. It was a waiting, hungry silence.
He had refused. For now. But the offer was on the table, a dangerous weapon now lodged in his mind. He knew it was there. The Abyss knew he knew.
And as if summoned by the mere discussion of a "storm," a new, official alert pulsed from the system. It was not Xuan Zhang. It was a bulk, automated notice from the Order Division's Perimeter Defense Grid.
ABYSS OF THE FALLEN GODS - THREAT LEVEL INCREASED TO CATASTROPHIC. ALL AVAILABLE PATROL ENVOYS ARE RECALLED FOR RE-ASSIGNMENT TO THE ABYSSAL PERIMETER. ALL NON-ESSENTIAL MONITORING OF INTERNAL ASSETS IS TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED.
Li Fan read the message, his blood running cold.
The Abyss hadn't been making an offer.
It had been issuing a warning. The storm was coming, with or without his permission.
Xuan Zhang would be gone. The system's intense, focused gaze on his kingdom would lift. The "non-essential monitoring" included the deep, analytical tracking that had so nearly caught him.
The perfect cover was being handed to him, a gift wrapped in nightmare and delivered by a monster.
He looked inward at his hidden reservoir, then out at the void where the Abyss churned. The path was clear. He could remain cautious, stick to his slow, safe trickle, and hope the system's forces contained the Abyssal onslaught.
Or he could seize the moment the ancient horror was providing. He could open the floodgates of his script, ramp up the leakage rate from a meaningless percentage to something substantial, and fill his reservoir with stolen potential at a speed he had never dreamed possible.
It was no longer a question of strategy. It was a test of nerve.
Did he have the courage to dance in the eye of a hurricane, trusting that the storm would hide him, even as it threatened to devour everything?
The system's ledger was before him. The Abyss was the distraction. And he, the asset, had a choice to make: to remain a cautious thief, or to become a king of embezzlers.
He made his decision. His fingers, metaphysically speaking, hovered over the controls of his leaking script. The "why" no longer mattered. Only the "how much" remained.