I sparked a mythological frenzy in Marvel.

Chapter 117 Strange's Pain

Glug glug glug.

Strange held a bottle of liquor and kept chugging it down his throat.

He lost his job, his long-time employment, and his once nimble hands.

It all started with that car accident.

He survived that damn car accident, but his hands were shattered, and he could never hold a scalpel again.

This means that he is no longer the renowned neurosurgeon he once was, nor is he Yahweh's gift to the surgical community.

Right now he's just an alcoholic, and who knows, he might even become a homeless person.

Strange hadn't given up yet, but ever since that night when the Holy Son Hong Xiuqing descended to earth and displayed miracles, he immediately went to the statue to pray and sought help from the priests of the Church of the Holy Son.

but.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Strange, although the Son is omnipotent and benevolent, we mortals are not."

We are powerless to help with the injury to your hand. Please accept our deepest condolences. If you can pray sincerely, perhaps one day a miracle from the Holy Son will happen to you.

Will the miracle of the Holy Son happen to me?

How is that possible!

After going from heaven to hell, from hope to despair, Strange had lost all hope.

Strange staggered to his feet, the bottle slipping from his hand and falling to the floor with a crisp, hollow sound, much like the echo within his heart.

He staggered out of the dimly lit hut, the night wind howling past, as if even the wind itself was mocking his incompetence and destitution.

The streetlights lengthened his shadow, making it appear exceptionally lonely and long.

He wandered aimlessly through the empty streets, his heart filled with nostalgia for the past and uncertainty about the future.

He was once so proud, standing in front of the operating table, every precise operation was like a display of art. Saving lives was his mission, his honor, and his endless source of wealth.

Now, those once nimble hands can only hang limply at his sides, as if it were the greatest irony of his life.

Strange stopped and leaned against a dim streetlamp. The biting wind pierced through his thin clothes, making him shiver.

He lowered his head, staring blankly at his hands, those hands that were once surrounded by countless praises, but now felt as heavy as scrap metal.

Tears welled up in his eyes, then silently slid down, dripping onto the cold ground and instantly swallowed by the night.

Just then, an unusual gust of wind blew by, and a beautiful figure stood in front of him.

"Dr. Strange, you can't go on like this."

Strange quickly wiped away the tears in his eyes, looked up at the person in front of him, and found that it was his colleague and friend Christine Palmer.

She is also a highly skilled surgeon, although her skills are far inferior to what she used to be.

Christine's eyes were full of concern as she gently draped a coat over Strange's trembling shoulders, trying to dispel the chill and despair that surrounded him with warmth.

"I know how you feel right now. Losing everything feels like the whole world has collapsed. But please believe me, this is not the end, but the beginning of another journey."

Strange looked up, his eyes flashing with a complex mix of emotions, including surprise and gratitude.

"Christine, what are you doing here? I'm a useless person now."

Christine shook her head, her tone gentle yet firm: "No, Strange, you will never be a useless person. Your wisdom, your experience, your love of life—these are invaluable assets."

The scalpel may have temporarily left your hand, but your medical skills and the power of your heart remain. You can find new ways to help others and continue your mission.

Strange listened to Christine's words and felt a long-lost warmth well up in his heart, but he did not reply.

Although Christine's words sounded wonderful, reality is cruel; once it's ruined, it's ruined.

While Strange found some solace, the Church of Dagon was also experiencing a vigorous resurgence.

Lured by gold and fish, the seaside town of Gros quickly fell under the spell of the Dagon Church.

The townspeople smashed Yahweh's icon and began to worship Dagon instead, regarding him as the god of wealth.

As the Church of Dagon became more entrenched in Gros, an unprecedented atmosphere of fanaticism enveloped the entire town.

At night, around a bonfire lit on the beach, believers gathered around the statue of Dagon, chanting ancient and mysterious hymns, praying for the sea god's blessings and protection.

Their eyes gleamed with an insatiable desire for wealth, as if the waves would bring endless gold and fishing nets full of fish if they were devout enough.

The church bells resounded through the sky at dawn and dusk, no longer the melodious and solemn tune of the Yahweh Church of the past, but notes full of primal power and wild call, inspiring believers to follow Dagon's footsteps more firmly.

The town's artisans busied themselves carving more Dagon statues, decorating the streets and houses, making the entire town of Gros seem to be swallowed up by the aura of Dagon overnight.

Apart from a few individuals, the entire town of Grove was now fanatically worshipping Dagon.

"High Priest, the church is finally back on track."

Evans looked delighted; the days of uncertainty were finally over.

"Yes, our efforts have not been in vain. Gro Town will become a new holy site for the Dagon faith."

Next, we will develop along the coast of this country, eventually taking root inland, and finally, in New York.

The mere mention of New York ignited a fire within Casillas; he would never forget the day he had fled New York in such a wretched state.

He longed to return to New York every moment, but the power of the Holy Son filled him with fear, and this was something that could only be done slowly.

"High Priest, I feel that the Church seems to be missing something."

Upon hearing this, Casillas frowned slightly and turned to Evans, his loyal and insightful deputy who always offered constructive advice when he needed it most.

"Oh? What do you mean, Evans?"

Evans stepped forward, lowering his voice to avoid being overheard by the surrounding believers: "High Priest, I feel that our church has always lacked a strong figure, a backbone."

Are you saying I'm incompetent and unfit to lead the Dagon Church?

Casillas was immediately displeased. If it weren't for Evans's numerous merits and unwavering loyalty, he would have been dead the moment those words were uttered.

"No, High Priest, I mean, the Son's ordeal should also end, and he should return to the Church."

"I see. I had already made arrangements for this, and the hidden agents I planted have already been activated."

For the sake of the great Cthulhu, Kaecilius did not mind handing over the leadership of the Church to the Holy Son; however, in the end, he would still have to suffer a bit.

How can a mature leader not suffer hardships?

(End of this chapter)