Chapter 6: Poison and Paranoia

While I was speaking with Rachel, the man from before turned and left the basement.

His footsteps faded up the stairs, leaving behind a nervous hush. Rachel clung to me a moment longer before finally stepping back, brushing at her tears.

Moments later, he returned, bringing with him an old man dressed in black.

The new arrival wore a suit that had seen better days, the collar frayed, the lapels shiny with age. He carried himself like he owned the place, eyes sharp and cold.

The old man introduced himself as the man’s pastor.

He spoke with practiced ease, offering a handshake I accepted out of habit. There was something off about him—a quiet arrogance, the kind you only see in small-town authority figures used to being obeyed.

Judging by the disciple’s respectful attitude, the old man clearly held some status.

The assistant stood a step behind, head bowed, hands folded. It was the kind of deferential body language I’d seen in church basements all across America—respect bordering on fear.

"I heard from my assistant that a miracle occurred here, so I came to see for myself." The old man had Rachel step aside and stood before me.

He spoke in a soft, commanding tone, like a doctor about to deliver bad news. His eyes scanned me with clinical detachment.

"Mind if I take a look at your hand, son?" he asked, reaching out.

He extended his palm, waiting for me to comply. I hesitated a fraction too long before giving in—better to play along and keep him guessing.

I offered my hand, and the moment our skin touched, I felt a surge of energy probe my body.

A shiver ran down my spine. It was like being frisked at the airport, only far more invasive—a subtle, searching pressure.

Judging by the quality, he was at best a minor practitioner, nowhere near my level.

His energy was thin, scattered—a cheap imitation of real power. I felt a twinge of pity, mixed with annoyance.

Only seven or eight major steps below me.

He wasn’t even in the same league. In my old life, I’d have brushed him aside without a second thought.

In the past, I would have cut him down with a single stroke.

I remembered the old days—the thrill of a quick duel, the satisfaction of victory. But those days were over. Now, caution was my best weapon.

But now, I know how to bide my time.

Patience didn’t come easy, but I’d learned my lesson. Sometimes, survival means knowing when to keep your blade sheathed.

After all, in my previous life, it was my recklessness that led to Rachel’s death.

The memory was fresh, sharp as ever. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Later, I overestimated myself and tried to challenge true great beings, nearly annihilating my own soul.

That kind of arrogance nearly cost me everything. Now, I kept my ambitions small, my movements careful.

Now, not knowing this man’s true background, I dare not act rashly.

I watched him closely, looking for tells—a twitch of the eye, a tremor in his voice. Anything that might betray his true intentions.

Besides, all I want is a peaceful life with Rachel. As for disputes, I’d rather avoid them if I can.

I’d had enough of violence and intrigue. These days, my dreams were simple: a hot meal, a warm bed, a family to come home to.

The old man’s energy roamed through my body, finally revealing his true purpose: he wanted to activate the poison within me.

I felt the subtle nudge, the way you sense someone watching you from across the street. But my defenses held firm—he found nothing.

But I had already digested the poison, so he naturally found nothing.

His brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. He tried again, more forceful this time, but it was useless.

"This medicine on the table," the old man frowned, "did you really drink it?"

His suspicion was palpable. He glanced at the bowl, then back at me, eyes narrowing.

I nodded.

I kept my expression blank, shoulders relaxed. I’d learned long ago not to give away too much.

"Then why didn’t you finish it? I checked just now—your body is still very weak, you could die at any time."

He spoke with the confidence of someone used to being right. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

I couldn’t be bothered to argue, so I simply tipped back the bowl and finished the rest of the poison in one gulp.

The liquid was thick and bitter, burning a trail down my throat. I forced myself to swallow, keeping my face neutral.

The old man was delighted and prepared to repeat his trick, but I shook off his hand and feigned distress, clutching my head. "Oh man, my head hurts so much!"

I played it up, groaning loudly. Theatrics had always been my strong suit—sometimes, you just have to lean into the role.

Then I got up and took Rachel’s hand. "Rachel, my head is killing me. Quick, take me outside for some fresh air."

I squeezed her hand, putting just enough weight behind the words to make it seem urgent. She nodded, her worry written all over her face.

With that, she supported me as we walked out of the basement.

The stairs creaked beneath our feet, the air growing fresher with every step. The sunlight waiting above felt like a blessing.

As expected, the old man and his assistant didn’t stop us.

They watched us go, frustration simmering just below the surface. I could feel their eyes on my back the whole way up.

In that brief exchange, I had already sensed the old man’s murderous intent.

It was there in the tension of his jaw, the way his hand lingered just a little too long. I’d seen that look before—in the eyes of men about to do something they couldn’t take back.

I don’t know why, but he seemed determined to see me dead.

Maybe it was fear, or maybe it was something deeper—a need to assert control over something he didn’t understand.

If I finished the medicine and didn’t die, he’d likely make his move for real.

It was a dangerous game, and I was walking a razor’s edge. I hoped my performance was convincing enough.

At that point, while I could kill him in an instant, if there were any true great beings nearby, I might not be able to hide my strength.

The risk was too great. One wrong move, and I could bring the whole weight of the church down on us.

After all, judging by their tone, they seemed to worship this Madonna.

I’d seen enough small-town cults to know how dangerous blind faith could be. The Madonna was more than just a name—she was the power behind the throne.

And from experience, anyone who is worshipped is likely a great being who protects a region.

You don’t mess with the local legends. Every town has one—the kind of story parents use to scare their kids straight. The Madonna was no different.