Chapter 208:

The ancient monastery was a large wall built on a hill made of stone and cement 700,000 years ago. It can only be accessed by one route, which is a narrow staircase, which the guards of the monastery have carefully observed. It was built during the upcoming civil war, when demonic factions continued to clash.
The head of Leviathan, only the eight people who promoted him from his position to a senior position knew his identity. He decided to use a small part of the huge wealth they accumulated for the greater benefit of the order. Establish a fortress sacred place to protect his priests and priestesses from the political influence of turmoil. The fort was built to the strictest standards, and its polished gray walls cannot be scaled.
As the years went by, the streets of the city designed and built by Lucifer became less and less, the story behind the smoothness, the walls of the black fortress were flooded, and countless demons and people saw everything about it at a glance. A favorite story of people living in excess.
Between the monastery and the big city of hell, sits a vast shanty town called Guanyao, where the people who serve in mansions, temples and streets eat and eat after retirement, and yes, have to pay, (if They are lucky to have given birth to one or two babies that can be sold in the slaughterhouse).
The story of the fortress and the terrible things behind the wall are exchanged like currency, becoming more and more refined. For people, this is understandable comfort, their daily life is full of horror and brutal life, somewhere, the situation is even worse, they can watch and tell themselves that the situation may be even worse Bad. Therefore, every man, woman, and child expresses his own confession that they are not victims of the fortress, in which incredible orders will wash away even the most precious memories. In this way, people exist in the framework of something close to life. Living in a place of excretion and exhaustion, their bodies have almost no nutrition, and their spirits are not full,
All this shocked Theodore Felixon. During his life, he used a lot of luck to make money. He wanted to call it an art of will, and he always purchased it privately, because the paintings in his collection were completely moved out of the sniffing range of the museum hound. All the photos he has are related to in some way: Lucifer's Tintoretto fell, his wings ripped off his body, and followed him into the abyss. Luca Sinorelli prepared his fresco in Hell; a horror book purchased by Felixson in Damascus, because its obscure creator found a way to change the hourly contemplation Sin and punishment. These are the scariest works in his considerable collection of hell, and none of them resemble the truth.
Pilata has an elegant symmetry, and its eight peaks ("better than the Romans", boasted by its architect), are packed with buildings of countless styles and sizes. Felixon knew nothing about the rules of the city. Hell priest mentioned it on only one occasion and talked about it in a way that despised this creature. He believed that every inhabitant of Pyratha was a subspecies, and their blind hedonism was on par with their stupidity. When Rome fell, the city built by Lucifer had surpassed Rome and became abolished and self-indulgent. Its regime was too concerned about its internal struggle to remove the city's filth and restore it to a state of discipline. Before Lucifer disappeared.
Yes, it’s surprising that the architecture of is surprising to Felixon, finding that the angel who was driven from heaven in a rebellious way by the angel is not on his throne, even though it does have Certainly make sense. As mentioned above, Felixson thinks so.
There are countless theories about Lucifer's disappearance, and Felixson has listened to it. According to the story you choose to believe, Lucifer either went mad and died in the wasteland, escaped from altogether, or walked on Pirata Street disguised as a civilian. Felixon didn't believe in either. He expressed his opinion on this issue and reserved all other opinions on this. He knew that he was lucky to be alive, and despite the torture of surgery that ruined his ability to understand sentences, he was still fully capable of thinking clearly. He knew that if he was willing to spend time and play cards correctly, sooner or later an escape route would appear, and when it escaped, he would choose to walk away. He will return to Earth, change his name and face, and give up magic for the rest of the day.
That was the plan until he realized that life without power was not the nightmare he imagined. He was once one of the most accomplished and ambitious magicians in the world, but it takes a lot of energy, will and time to stick to this position. When he finally allowed himself to learn from his ancestors, he found that his soul problem had been completely ignored, because the complex affairs of the soul first plunged him into the mystery of craftsmanship. Until now, as a slave to the devil, Felixson was free to start a long journey of self and self again, and this journey distracted him from the curse. Living in made him aware of the possibility of heaven, and he never lived again.
Felixon stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the fortress gate, firmly grasping the message in his recently bent hand. The letter he was holding was given to him by one of the messengers of hell, the only objectively beautiful creature in hell. They exist only to ensure that hell's dirtiest transactions are always wrapped in a beautiful package.
In the future, on the way to him, there will be a small team of priests and priestesses from hell, and a team of thirty-two strongest soldiers in the Order. Among them, Felixson proudly said that his master was standing.
Felixon looked away from the smoking spikes in the city and set his sights on the upcoming Cerrobites parade. The wind has sprung up like bamboo shoots after rain, or the wind, because there is only one type: it is extremely cold, blowing the smell of rotting and burning blood that permeates the air forever. Now, with the violent gusts of gusts of wind blowing, it firmly grasped the black ceremonial robe, and unlocked the thirty-foot-high grease-stained human skin banner held by several priests and priestesses. , Making these flags meandering and breaking high. On their heads. Felixon looked at the hides’ eyes and mouth lenticules. It seemed that the victim was still staring in disbelief, watching the flying knife untie them, because their skin was skilfully peeled off the muscles. , Screaming forever.
The bell in the fortress tower, called the Summoner's Bell (actually, it was the bell that opened Leviathan, always heard the bell from a distance), now ringing, welcoming the brothers and sisters of the Knights back. fortress. After seeing his master, Felixon knelt on the muddy ground, bowed his head, so that when the parade climbed the steps leading to the fortress gate, the ground touched the ground. Felixson pierced his head firmly in the mud, stretched out his arms, and the thought he was carrying was held high in front of him.
His master walked out of the line to talk to Felixon, and the tribe from behind continued to walk past.
"What is this?" his master said, clutching the letter in Felixon's hand.
Felixson turned his head, muddy, and twisted to the left so that he could study his master's reaction with one eye. Saivita's face was incomprehensible. No one knows how old he is-Felixson is so smart that he dare not ask-but his age is heavy on his face, carve it into something that can never be made, only to be troubled by loss and the pain of time. Felixon’s tongue slipped off his head and landed on the muddy, muddy street. He doesn't seem to mind. He was in awe of his master.
"I was called to the unconsumed house," the priest stared at the letter in his hand.
If you like the best trick or treat system, please collect it: (EbookFREE.me) The best trick or treat system has the fastest literary update.