Maxi stood in an endless black void.
He sighed—not out of fear or confusion, but from weariness. His feet moved on instinct, walking through the darkness for what felt like eternity. No sounds. No sky. No ground. Just void.
Eventually, a single spotlight pierced the darkness like a needle through velvet. It illuminated a small, prestigious old coffee table with a book resting neatly on top—familiar, heavy with presence.
Maxi's heart leapt. He ran toward it.
But the moment he stepped into the light, black shadow-hands burst from the void. One grabbed his ankle, another his wrist, then more—wrapping around his limbs, his chest, his neck.
Maxi struggled, reaching for the book. His fingers brushed the surface—but a final hand clamped over his mouth and yanked him back into the dark.
"NO!"
He was swallowed whole by it.
Then—he awoke.
Maxi sat up in bed, stretching with a groan. Should I even fight anymore? The question rang through his mind like a bell.
It always ends the same way, he thought, rubbing his eyes. That dream…
He'd had it many times now, ever since encountering the one he presumed to be the God of Secretive Planning. Yet even the first time he'd dreamt it, it felt like the millionth. The shadow hands had never appeared before then, but somehow—they were familiar. As if he'd always known them.
Still, giving up wasn't in his nature.
If you don't try, you've already failed—not the challenge, but yourself.
With that thought, Maxi stretched again and noticed a tray on the side table.
On it sat a plate of something that looked like beef Wellington, the pastry golden and sprinkled with red seeds. Beside it, a small silver soup boat steamed gently with a thick, red-brown gravy.
"I'll eat it after I bathe," Maxi muttered, voice still gravelly with sleep.
He made his way to the bath, letting the warm water wake his body and mind. Afterward, he dressed in a crimson waistcoat with matching red pants and a clean white button-up shirt. His round glasses sat waiting on the counter—he slid them on with a sigh of readiness.
Finally, he returned to the tray.
Maxi grabbed a fork and knife, slicing three clean pieces from the Wellington and layering them together, half atop each other. When he looked at the meat inside, it shimmered with a slight purple tint.
He took a bite.
The taste exploded across his tongue—complex, tender, perfect. The usual mushroom duxelles had been replaced with something else. Something chewy, with a sweet undertone, caramelized and bouncing in flavor. It was a taste that most wouldn't notice, but Maxi's senses, sharpened by the passive blessing of the Demon King of Pride, picked up on it.
That blessing made every nuance stand out—flavors even master chefs might miss. It was like tasting a single, ant-sized bite of dragonfruit, vibrant and sharp.
Maxi then poured the gravy over the Wellington and took another bite.
It was as if the dish had been missing something—something he hadn't realized until now. The gravy added what the meat lacked: a rich, protein-deep complexity that completed it like a final note in a symphony.
Maxi sat there for a moment, stunned.
Who made this? he wondered, amazed forgetting momentarily that he asked Angelina to make him that same plate the previous day.
In a few minutes, he had devoured the entire dish, savoring every moment.
Here's the continuation of Chapter 64 rewritten with novel formatting, smoother pacing, and polished tone, while keeping all your original ideas intact
After his meal, Maxi spent the next three hours reading the final few books he had left—savoring each word, piecing together this world's strange history.
Then, a knock.
"Young master," a voice called from the other side.
"Come in," Maxi replied, eyes still scanning the last paragraph.
The door creaked open, and Angelina stepped inside.
She looked... different.
Her posture was lighter, her eyes no longer heavy with lingering shadows. The usual simmering annoyance was still there—but now it felt normal, human, rather than born of trauma. Her hair was almost fully combed, and her face had color again.
Maxi blinked.
Under his breath, he muttered, "I thought it took longer to recover from trauma... Either the medicine or therapy in this world is on another level."
The thought lingered, stirring a memory. The moment when the King of Power nearly killed him—because of Tengen.
Maxi flinched slightly at the memory.
I wonder... Can they cure me of that trauma too?
"Good morning, young master Maxi," Angelina said, her tone more respectful than usual.
Caught off guard, Maxi stammered, "Oh—hello, Angelina. How are you?"
"Good. Did you enjoy your meal?"
"Yes. Very much so. Thank you for that," he said carefully, trying not to gush too much.
I can't explain how good it was. That'd boost her ego, and I kind of like her this way—more humble. She's easier to talk to now.
Angelina nodded once, almost pleased, and then announced, "Today we will be going to see Tengen. He's well enough now."
"Seriously?" Maxi's voice was a strange mix of excitement and disappointment.
He'd been hoping to finish reading through the rest of the world's history today. With Tengen back, he'd have to listen to his overly dramatic storytelling—far different from Colen's calm, whimsical approach.
"Yes, I'm being serious," Angelina replied.
"Alright then, let's go."
She opened the door for him, and Maxi stepped out. She followed, closing the door gently behind them.
As they walked down the long hallway toward Tengen's room, Maxi asked, "So... are you less angry now?"
Angelina gave a quiet nod.
"That's good to hear," he replied, his voice genuine.
Angelina side-eyed him with a subtle smirk, but said nothing.
Eventually, they arrived.
Angelina opened the thick wooden door to Tengen's chambers and gestured for Maxi to enter first.
He stepped inside, and the memories returned instantly.
The room was just as he remembered.
The floor was paved in smooth gray stone. The walls and ceiling were painted matte black, with thousands of crimson stars dotting the surfaces in constellations that constantly shifted depending on one's angle—galaxies twirling and reshaping like a living sky.
At the center stood Tengen's signature chair—stage-like in design, carved from dark red oak with a plush purple cushion. To the far right, a closed door led to what Maxi assumed was Tengen's private quarters. Against the back wall stood a red oak table and a massive blackboard, still covered in diagrams and sketches.
Maxi approached the chair, but something felt off.
Tengen wasn't there.
Then—it happened.
A single red star appeared out of thin air, glowing bright.
Then another. And another.
One by one, they lit up until they outlined the shape of a man. Each new star pulsed with a celestial hum, and when they were complete, they all erupted in a blinding, radiant glow.
A thunderous sound rang out—not like thunder, but like a war chant echoing through the cosmos.
The stars vanished.
And in their place, standing atop the desk with arms spread wide and a familiar grin—was Tengen.
"Hy, Master Maxi," he said, voice filled with joy, pride, and just a hint of theatrical madness.