Wayne Baker scratched his head. This was absurd, but... it felt down-to-earth. The mysterious mage he had imagined suddenly seemed much more approachable.

After some inquiries, Veronica Smith learned the name and hometown of the Death Walker.

Mike Nelson, nicknamed 'Bloody Mike Nelson', was from the small town of Kafuno, located northwest of the outskirts of Lundun City.

Mike Nelson came from a family of mule drivers. He came to the big city alone to make a living, spending years around the docks and warehouse districts. Once, he offended a local thug while fighting for work and was beaten bloody, earning him the nickname Bloody Mike Nelson.

Mike Nelson had no connections, no brains, and no money—he was destined to never rise above his station. If nothing unexpected happened, he would be squeezed for every bit of value at the docks, and when he could no longer work, he would return home with meager savings and a body full of injuries.

But somehow, Mike Nelson turned his life around. He became a follower of the Goddess of Death, successfully mastered magic, and gathered a group of underlings to seize a piece of territory in the warehouse district.

As for what exactly happened to him, Mike Nelson never said a word. He was devoutly loyal to death, and his personality had changed drastically.

While Veronica Smith was gathering intelligence, Wayne Baker couldn't suppress his curiosity and asked William Johnson, “William Johnson, as far as you know, is the Goddess of Death male or female?”

“Female.”

William Johnson answered without hesitation, then added, “At least outwardly, she appears as a woman.”

“And in essence?”

“That I... Why are you asking this?”

“Uh, just now I blended into the crowd and pretended to pray. I heard a voice in my ear—I don't know if it was the Goddess of Death. It was very deep, definitely a man's voice. He asked if I was willing to offer up everything.” Wayne Baker said with a serious face.

“That wasn't the Goddess of Death. It was one of the three Executors of Death, the Observer Gregory Evans. See that spider symbol over there? That's the mark of the Observer.”

William Johnson cleared up Wayne Baker's confusion, then said in surprise, “Death never comes proactively, but for the Observer to personally extend an invitation—you’re lucky. It means you’re highly compatible with death.”

William Johnson left something unsaid: for Wayne Baker to receive the Observer’s invitation, he was very likely to become the Goddess of Death’s chosen one in the mortal world, and thus gain great power—far beyond what ordinary Death Walkers could ever hope for.

“Being chosen by death—how is that lucky? The Observer Gregory Evans...”

Wayne Baker was halfway through his sentence when William Johnson covered his mouth. The latter leaned in close and warned, “You’re on the Observer’s list now. You can’t call his name directly, or he’ll think you’re responding to the invitation. Got it?”

Wayne Baker froze for a moment, pushed away William Johnson's hand as if it were taking advantage, and asked curiously, “If he thinks I’m responding, what will happen?”

“His will shall descend here and mark you as a Death Follower.” William Johnson said gravely.

“Gulp!”

William Johnson's voice was so chilling, nothing like his usual sunny optimism. The stark contrast made Wayne Baker swallow nervously, thinking to himself how close he’d come to disaster. Luckily, the guy had stopped him in time—otherwise, if the Executor’s will had descended, he’d be in real trouble today.

Just then, a sudden change erupted in the center of the warehouse. The inverted triangle symbol, submerged in greenery, burst forth with black light. Eight spider legs twisted and writhed in the void, as if, after a moment of stillness, they had become lively and vigorous once more.

The twisted spider legs sank into the void, connecting to a place beyond this world. A deep murmur echoed throughout the warehouse, followed by the powerful impact of a black curtain.

A wave of darkness swept across the entire area, turning everything it touched into shades of gray and white.

Veronica Smith didn’t defend herself, nor did William Johnson. They seemed to have been prepared for this moment, or perhaps this was exactly what they’d been waiting for. Not only did they not defend, they calmly accepted the baptism of black light.

The followers were also unharmed. The shockwave was terrifying only in appearance; in reality, it had no physical destructive power. Once the black light faded, the gray-and-white warehouse returned to its original state.

Except for Wayne Baker, who felt something had changed within his body.

“Veronica Smith, are you alright?”

William Johnson asked tentatively. Seeing Veronica Smith shake her head, he sighed, “As expected, the curse isn’t so easy to break. Who was it that said two negatives make a positive? Oh, that was my guess. Never mind, then.”

Veronica Smith didn’t comment, just rolled her eyes at William Johnson for him to figure it out himself.

“Sorry to interrupt, but about the curse—could you be more specific? Was it the Observer’s will that descended?” Wayne Baker asked stiffly, cold sweat soaking his back.

“It has nothing to do with the Observer, or with you. The curse comes from another Executor of Death, the Judge. We were cursed for disrupting the ritual. I cast a spell on you—it will protect you from the curse’s harm.”

William Johnson slapped Wayne Baker on the shoulder, feeling proud of his foresight. Suddenly, his eyes widened in disbelief, “What’s going on? Where’s my magic? You—you’re cursed?”

“You’re asking me? Who am I supposed to ask? I have no idea either!”

Wayne Baker looked miserable. Of course he knew what was going on, but only children admit fault—adults know that shifting the blame is the way to go.