American Evil God, starting with the American rebel leader raising poisonous insects.

Chapter 73 Who shares your master?

The room was silent for a few seconds.

After Lucien finished laughing, he leaned back on the sofa and crossed his legs.

He looked at Roman Nakur, his eyes narrowing as if he were examining a piece of jewelry that was reasonably well-made but had an outdated concept.

"Who shares your master?"

The voice was very soft, with a slightly lazy tone.

Roman's gentle expression froze for a moment.

"New Zion?"

Lucien continued, a smirk playing on his lips, "We? Who's talking about 'we'?"

He paused, pronouncing each English word clearly.

"What kind of American are you?"

"Don't forget, we were the ones who drove you here back then."

That country bumpkin, what a far-fetched connection!

Lucien is despised.

Roman pressed his fingers against the cover of the book on his knee, his eyes widening.

But he didn't say anything, he just watched.

Lucien suddenly stood up, his movements quick and light.

He walked to the wall, looked up at the bone chandelier, and then turned to a decoration hanging on a metal frame in the corner of the room. It was a bunch of Chapolili grapes strung on a thin silver chain, treated with preservatives and coated with a transparent glaze.

He jumped up slightly and reached out to pick one.

I held it between my fingers and examined it against the light.

"You've been researching this for so long..."

He said, turning back to face Roman, "We've even been producing and selling our own for so long."

He tossed the eyeball up, caught it, and asked, "Did you discover any miracles?"

Roman finally spoke, his voice steady: "Decoration is meant to remind us of the fragility and sacredness of life. This is not—"

Have you ever seen God?

Lucien interrupted him, walked back to the sofa, leaned down, rested his arms on the armrests, and brought his face close to Roman's. "Have you ever received the Lord's gaze?"

He stared into the other man's eyes. "Your church has been practicing for so long, have you accomplished any miracles? Even the slightest one, enough to make those white-feathered chickens outside feel something?"

Roman's breathing became somewhat heavy.

Lucien straightened up, walked to the low cabinet, and picked up the cup that was carved from the half-skeleton of a giant head.

He picked up the bottle and poured in the dark red liquid until it overflowed.

The liquid is thick and sticks to the sides of the container.

"You claim to be a prophet,"

He raised his cup to Roman, gesturing, "Then may I ask, has the Lord given you any divine message?"

He glanced at the book on Roman's lap. "Is there even a shred of truth in your book, aside from that nonexistent miracle and this somewhat interesting craftsmanship?"

He took a sip.

The sound of swallowing was clearly audible in the silence.

"You're saying—"

Roman was about to retort when Lucien placed a hand on his lips to shut him up.

"Do you know Roman?"

He put down his cup, an unnatural blush rising on his face, but his eyes shone with a frightening light. "Before God took pity on me, I was just a fool who played around with girls, wandered around in red shoes, and spent my days just getting high on boosters, an utterly empty idiot."

He took two steps closer.

"Do you know, Roman, why I guided the dragon to become a believer in the Lord?"

"He's very funny, and God will like him very much."

He lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret, or perhaps interrogating, "Do you know?"

Roman's body tensed up.

"What exactly do you mean?"

He finally managed to squeeze out a sentence, his voice a little hoarse.

He looked at the young man before him, whose overly perfect face was now a mixture of intoxication, fanaticism, and a kind of clarity he couldn't understand. This was a denial of the 502 Church's centuries-old foundation, the ideology that aimed to approach holiness through strict laws, bloodline purification, and generations of asceticism, ultimately transforming the entire group into a saintly kingdom.

As a prophet, he was not without doubt deep down whether the Lord would really intervene so specifically.

Otherwise, this so-called "holy son" who came to our door with a recommendation letter from the Baisha Bay Club that was almost childish would never be sitting here.

But you can't be so unreasonable, can you?

Lucien suddenly laughed, his shoulders shaking.

He grabbed the bottle and poured the remaining liquid down his throat.

His Adam's apple bobbed violently.

Ah~ My mouth is full of holy blood, and it's so pure and fresh.

She was probably no older than five years old, and had even been dieting for a long time.

Then he swayed, as if he were really drunk, and staggered to the armrest of the sofa next to Roman, his body leaning against Roman's shoulder.

The warm breath, carrying the cloying, bloody scent of alcohol, wafted past Roman's ear.

"you,"

Lucien's voice was extremely low, a whisper that tickled the eardrums, "Want to see the Kingdom of God?"

Roman Nakur was completely stunned.

The blood seemed to rush to the top of my head and then freeze instantly.

My heart pounded heavily in my chest.

Does he want to see it?

The answer to this question would almost tear apart everything he had built over the decades.

he thinks.

Of course he wanted to.

What he sought throughout his life was nothing more than a definite sign, a real contact that transcended written records, bone carvings, and all metaphors and symbols.

And now, is it really going to appear before him?

His lips trembled.

But his mouth felt as if it were sealed with invisible wax.

He couldn't open his mouth.

It's not physically impossible.

It was those things, the three hundred perfect faces in the church looking up to them with trust;

It is the boundless expectation of tens of thousands of Baiyu people and believers throughout Yancheng Lake;

It is the firm commitment of the state legislators who accepted "political donations";

It was the web of interests and responsibilities woven from the tax-exempt properties and lands under the church's name, and the contributions of countless families over generations, that tightened around him, constricting his vocal cords.

It is fear.

He could obtain the truth he had always believed but longed to know simply by opening his mouth or nodding slightly.

But at this moment, he was afraid.

Opportunities slip away in the dead silence.

"Ha ha ha ha----"

Lucien's laughter broke the silence.

He stepped back and stood up straight.

The drunken state he had just displayed receded like the tide, leaving only a cold clarity and a hint of mockery on his face.

"The opportunity is gone."

He said.

Roman remained seated, his throat tight.

"In that case,"

Lucien straightened the front of his suit jacket, which was actually wrinkle-free, and said in a relaxed tone, as if he were saying goodbye to an ordinary party, "Then welcome to the stage where I will be performing."

He walked to the door, gripped the doorknob, paused, and turned his face slightly to the side.

May the Lord bless you.

The door opened and then closed.

Only Roman Nakur was left in the room, along with the overly clean, cold white light cast by the bone chandelier.

On the low cabinet, a dark red stain remained on the rim of the skull cup.

On the carpet, the plucked "grape" lay quietly, its pupils staring blankly at the ceiling.