My Roommate is a Non-Human | Chapter 44 | The Artist's Fragile Shell | Novela.app

Chapter 45 - The Artist's Fragile Shell "As for why it chose this path, the entity remains a closed book. It hides its true nature from me, refusing even to whisper which ancient pantheon it hails from," Jin Mu said, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and resentment. "But when it first clawed its way into my consciousness, it offered me a deal. It dangled an Aztec gold coin before me, tempting me with the practiced ease of a silver-tongued demon. I can only surmise that it once played a role in the bloody tapestry of Aztec history." I couldn't help but feel a surge of exasperated pity for him. "A single gold coin was all it took to buy you over? Master Jin, for a man of your stature, your resolve seems remarkably... flimsy." A faint, embarrassed flush crept up Jin Mu’s neck, contrasting sharply with his otherwise deathly pallor. "It wasn't just the gold," he whispered, his eyes unfocused as if staring into a distant, terrifying horizon. "It promised me a gift no artist could refuse: the ability to witness the most frenzied, daring, and exquisite hallucinations imaginable. I thought I was buying a muse. I thought I was opening a door to a higher plane of creativity. But the scenes it showed me... they weren't hallucinations. They were cold, visceral reality. By the time I realized the horror of the bargain, it was far too late. It nearly unmade me." My instincts kicked in, and I offered the only comfort I could muster in such a surreal situation. "At least you’re still alive. That’s what matters." Jin Mu let out a hollow, rattling laugh that sounded like dry leaves skittering across a tombstone. He slowly reached up and removed his painter’s cap. "Do you truly believe I am still 'alive' in any sense that matters? Do you look at me and see a man who is 'doing well'?" The words died in my throat as I stared at him, paralyzed by a sudden, chilling realization. Where a portion of his skull had been shattered—the very spot where the entity had presumably forced its way out—there was no surgical plate or neat scarring. Instead, the jagged hole was plugged with a common red wine cork. It sat there, mundane and absurd, a household object sealing a divine wound. My imagination, fueled by the macabre reality before me, began to fill in the rest of the blanks. I could almost see his spine, likely split wide when Zhang Litian burst forth like a monstrous moth from a cocoon, held together not by medical sutures, but by heavy-duty staples or perhaps strips of yellowing packing tape. The world felt suddenly, violently cruel. I realized then that being an artist in this universe wasn't just a struggle for recognition; it was a literal battle for the integrity of one's own skin. "Technically, my body is a corpse," he continued, his tone turning deadly serious. "But I refuse to let that bastard have the final word. If it manages to reclaim its full Godhead, my consciousness will be snuffed out like a candle in a gale. I will cease to exist in every sense of the word. Worse, it will gain the power of prophecy—the ability to see and shape the threads of fate. That is a catastrophe no one can afford." He leaned forward, the cork in his head shifting slightly with the movement. "I brought you here to tell you the truth because I need an accomplice. I need you to help me destroy the Crystal Skull. If the opportunity arises, I need you to kill my god. Do that, and I can guide you through the darkness that lies ahead. I can show you the path you must take." I looked at the Crystal Skull resting nearby, its hollow sockets seeming to watch our exchange with a cold, ancient indifference. The weight of the task felt like a physical pressure on my chest. To kill a god, to shatter a relic of the Fifth Era—it was a madness that surpassed even Jin Mu's "hallucinations." Yet, looking at the stapled-together man before me, I knew there was no turning back.