Chapter 24
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 24
Chapter Title: Seventy Points
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Hm... about 70 points?
Not even qi deviation, yet the energy was moving on its own... and flowing into someone else's meridians without any clash.
Not enough with that—even simple contact allowed qi transmission, and it was even reading her unconscious thoughts with such clarity?
Even among the barrier arts of the Divine Ghost Return, there were minor soul arts or dream-wandering techniques that meddled with people's dreams.
But those mind-interfering arts carried huge risks: getting swept up in the target's thoughts could scramble your memories,
and in the worst case, cause ego collapse—turning either the caster or the subject into a mindless breathing doll.
They weren't even versatile enough to pierce through a dream's entire rise, climax, turn, and conclusion with such vivid clarity from the start.
Of course, circulating so stably through Atalanta's entire body to complete a full heavenly circuit was unbelievable enough,
but this memory imprinting directly into my brain was something I couldn't comprehend even mobilizing all the knowledge from my three lifetimes.
"Ugh..."
"Worries can wait."
Either way, this promising young hero's body was now occupied by the energy extending from me.
The thoughts flowing in along with it meant her unconscious was fully open to me—like plugging into a USB in admin mode.
In other words, one wrong move now, and I could turn this healthy young hero into a total wreck.
"Ugh... gotta do it."
No matter how much I disliked this budding delinquent kid, peering into her backstory and fate left plenty of room for sympathy.
Plus, the goddess of the crescent moon—who'd already soured on me from the first impression—might use this as an excuse to summon her brother or father. Before I could try anything, I'd end up as a crispy roasted Heavenly Demon.
'Even that guy in the next room got threatened by that personality tyrant to revive a corpse and took a lightning strike.'
According to the myth in her memories, Artemis had shoved the body at our white-furred buddy, encouraging him that he could save it.
A goddess infamous for her foul temper—if she'd refused, the myth would've recorded an arrow to the head instead of lightning.
I was in a pretty similar no-win spot myself.
"Alright, let's give it a shot."
I shook off the tantalizing hallucination of Heavenly Demon rare steak dancing before my eyes and pulled up a chair to sit.
Our hands clung together like a single body. The moment the energy—returned from completing its full circuit through Atalanta's body—flowed back through me according to the Ghostless Heart Art formula, passing the crown of my head to touch the upper dantian...
Blood oozing stickily into my palms.
The roar of lightning and scream of moonlight shaking my ears.
The piercing stench of blood and burning flesh in my nose.
Even the creepy gazes slithering onto my spine.
Atalanta's lived ordeals had merged with her nightmares, twisting into even more horrific visions. Now they assaulted my senses so vividly that I'd plunged deep into her dream.
Was that my voice?
Or Atalanta's scream?
Whose hand was this, clasped around the dainty young hero's in the pristine white treatment room?
Whose hand slashed at the sidelong glances and lolling tongues from every direction?
Flashes of chaotic scenes streaked past me like a torrent of muck.
'This is milder than that qi deviation back in the day.'
That time it wasn't a horror game—it was immersion in the hell realms.
I steadied my breathing, rattled by stray thoughts, and refocused on qi circulation. My consciousness began burrowing into Atalanta's dream along the energy flow.
Like sleep paralysis, my body and mind dissociated; my form felt buoyant and light... and suddenly I stood in the middle of a vast plain.
Behind me loomed the familiar entrance to the Heroes' Forest; ahead sprawled an army encampment.
It was that exact moment when Atalanta's pride had shattered.
Sentries slouching and spewing vulgar obscenities with guttural laughs. Soldiers openly scanning her—me, no, Atalanta—with lewd glints in their eyes.
And a general-looking moron hurling mocking insults without a shred of respect.
They'd seemed pathetic from afar, but seeing it up close made my brow furrow involuntarily.
'Tang Dynasty army or what?'
Sloppy discipline incomparable to the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult's 108 Demon Army under my command.
The ignorance of openly mocking their lord's blood kin, even nominally.
And the folly of judging the opponent by surface appearances alone.
I couldn't fathom what the king of Arcadia had been thinking, ordering his own flesh and blood—Chiron's disciple and a young hero—brought here.
'Armor's decent enough... but the guys holding it are subpar.'
As the Heavenly Demon of my past life, one finger jab—no, before I even raised a finger, my Four Heavenly Kings' division commanders would've culled them.
In the Heroes' Forest, even without Chiron, Theseus or Jason could've handled it; give it time, and Actaeon with his hounds would've mopped up these ragtag fools.
'If you're weak, at least be smart. If dumb, at least be kind.'
Powerless. Ignorant. Irreverent.
The worst trio, a rabble that made Tang armies look disciplined.
Even without Atalanta's mess, these guys would've died quick anywhere.
And then came Atalanta's brutal lesson time.
The enraged huntress instantly gouged out the general's eyes for his foul-mouthed yapping, then yanked his grotesquely screaming tongue and crushed it underfoot.
'Hm... about 70 points?'
The eye-gouge had good speed and precision, but too clean—probably less pain.
The tongue-pull: wrestling the slippery thing loose took excess force.
'It's already saliva-slick anyway—just get your hands dirtier and pierce right through with your fingers to rip it out.'
Still, for venting rage and executing her insulter, she'd hit the mark. Passing score, maybe.
If it were me...?
'Eyes first, then drawn-and-quartered plus three clans exterminated—full course.'
This wasn't 21st-century Korea. In a murim where power was law, overrun by bad-personality gods and heroes, quietly swallowing such an insult was like advertising: "Go ahead, underestimate me and attack~."
In that light, Atalanta gouging eyes and tongue then simply beheading him was downright merciful.
Well, even that got aborted by Chiron's intervention.
Atalanta, cradled in Chiron's arms with her eyes and ears covered, being carried away.
Yet her heart quaked with the heaven-shaking thunder of lightning and the divine might of moonlight.
'Here's where it all went wrong.'
Since Atalanta had started it, good or bad, she should've ended it herself for less lingering regret.
From Chiron's view, he'd worried the still-young Atalanta might commit murder and drown in guilt.
But letting her confront the shock head-on, pass her own judgment, and feel its weight—that would've been wiser.
'Now I get the heart demon's root.'
Atalanta had ended the punishment she'd started not with her own hands, but by borrowing "divine" ones.
Evil she couldn't sever herself. An ending she couldn't deliver herself.
To her, nothing had truly concluded—yet reality had buried it all in time as "finished."
Result: those lewd gazes clung to her back undispelled,
and the mocking insults stuck to her ears like leeches, whispering even in dreams.
Her defense mechanism, hunting a nonexistent source for phantom pains, eventually turned its arrows on nearby men resembling those soldiers.
Every glimpse of big, burly men triggered the heart demon—trauma—recalling insults and stares, honing her edge sharper still.
'Just like those orthodox sect bastards blaming the Demonic Cult for their own infighting panic!!'
No wonder the thought patterns felt familiar.
It mirrored the orthodox fools' mental loops I'd heard at the grand counter-demon sect strategy meeting.
Only difference: the target wasn't the Demonic Cult, but men.
But in cases like this, true hatred for the defense mechanism's fabricated foe was rare.
For these types,
guys with pointless pride and self-esteem saddled with such heart demons always loathed the same true target.
"Their own weakness—the self at the incident's heart that did nothing, the self that feels at fault."
Look at her.
In a nightmare rivaling horror flicks, brimming with eyeballs and lolling tongues, this budding thug Atalanta was raising her own hand to slit her own throat.
"Aaaargh!"
"Where you going with that?"
I lightly deflected her flailing knife with the sole of my foot.
"Hey, enough sulking—wake up already."
"You...?"
Would you look at this girl?
"Even in a dream? You forgot me already?"
The moment I said it, I noticed something off myself.
Had I ever worn such luxurious leather shoes since coming to this world?
The shoe that perfectly parried the blade wasn't the Greek-style sandals I usually wore—it was ornate leather footwear adorned with gold and silver inlays.
Though leather, tanned hundreds of times and fitted with artisans' intricate silver-iron embellishments, it left my foot unscathed despite her blade.
"Wait, this...?"
Only then did I glance down at my hands.
The pale, delicate boy's fingers I'd lamented were gone; instead, rough, calloused, scar-riddled warrior hands twitched.
And below, a black robe embroidered with gold and silver Asura motifs draped over a solidly muscled frame I could distinctly feel.
"No way this is..."
It was unmistakable.
The body of the Heavenly Demon Great Emperor I'd longed for—the one that unified murim and ascended to the beyond-heavens realm.