I created the myth of the Great Old Ones.

Lu Ban looked to the left, then to the right.

"I'm quite happy to be able to act in this movie."

Trist rubbed his nose.

"Yes, I initially thought it was just average, but it turned out to be surprisingly good."

Xia sighed and looked at Lu Ban.

"If there's an opportunity in the future, you must come back to cooperate with us again. Hmm, he should think about it some more."

"Why should I just think about it some more? I think I did a great job."

Tristan protested.

"Everything is fine, everything is fine."

Lu Ban reassured them, saying that the movie was nearing its end, all the climaxes had passed, the protagonists had worked hard to defeat all the enemies, and next, under the setting sun, the protagonist team would drive off into the distance.

A very happy ending.

"Then we should leave too."

"Sia said."

"I believe that one day, we will definitely meet again in some corner of this world."

Trist patted Lu Ban on the shoulder.

"Ah."

As the last rays of the setting sun disappeared below the horizon, Lu Ban saw the screen go completely black, and the credits were about to roll.

He saw everyone he had met along the way, all of them standing in front of a movie screen.

Some were happy, some were sad, some laughed out loud, and some cried their hearts out, but they all stayed in front of the movie screen and did not go to the audience seats.

They looked at Lu Ban as if they were saying goodbye.

The curtain has fallen.

Lu Ban said.

The entire movie theater fell into silent darkness, like a peaceful slumber.

Then, the lights came on as the event ended.

Chapter 953 I Created the Myth of the Great Old Ones (Grand Finale)

As the lights came on after the show, the movie theater became slightly noisy.

"What movie is this? What is it about?"

"It's incomprehensible, I didn't understand it at all!"

"I actually found it quite touching; I almost cried in the middle."

"Anyway, the ending seems alright."

"I haven't had enough yet, how can it end like this?"

"Does the director have some kind of psychological trauma? How could he make a story like this?"

"I feel like I could make this movie too, I could even do it myself."

"It's a bit of a waste of money to buy tickets. Next time I'll have to check the reviews first before buying tickets."

"I initially thought it would be a bit exciting, but I didn't expect it to end like this. It's hard to say."

"Does the director have any other works? I'm quite interested."

As the cast list continued to scroll, the audience became noisy, chattering about their thoughts on the film.

He remained seated in the audience and did not immediately stand up.

The movie I just watched, well, although there were many parts of the plot that I didn't understand, the way it was presented and the performances of the characters all stirred something within me.

If a work can touch people's hearts, then it can be considered a basic success.

As a creator, he held this view.

The people around him urged him to get up; they were a couple who seemed to be rushing to the next party.

He politely stepped aside and followed the crowd out of the movie theater, his mind still replaying the movie's plot.

After separating from his wife, he was often troubled by a strong sense of depression. In his youth, he suffered from mental illness, which even prevented him from completing his studies. Fortunately, life later gradually healed these pains, allowing him to focus on his creative work.

However, this emotion was rekindled amidst arguments, chaos, and betrayal, and recently he has been suffering from insomnia and nightmares at night.

In those bizarre and strange dreams, something indescribable influenced his consciousness. He saw many wonders he had never seen before, magnificent worlds, and strange and exotic landscapes. He also dreamed of some wonderful journeys, exploring humans, and all things crazy.

All of this was sparked by this seemingly inexplicable film, which made it difficult for him to contain his imagination.

Walking down the street, everything seemed extremely novel.

The war is over, but people's lives have not improved. The economic recession and collapse have made life increasingly difficult for ordinary people. However, on a higher level, new technologies have filled everyone with hope, as if the world will become a better place because of them.

He walked along the familiar yet unfamiliar streets. This port city had been quite prosperous since his childhood. Now, the docks were filled with many steel ships. Those ships, with thick black smoke billowing from their chimneys, sailed into the distance, bringing either hope or disaster. No one knew.

However, in his eyes, this dull and oppressive, unknown and indifferent world has changed.

On the cold white ship at sea, will it encounter a green temple rising from the seabed? When the stars return to their places, will an ancient call echo in the dreams of a stranger?

In the timeless shadows of the alleyways, do ferocious beasts lurk, and as night falls, whose hand do those whispered murmurs dance with under the moonlight?

Among the ordinary passersby, are there unspeakable external gods lurking, and is the lurking fear coming from the outside, casting the colors of the starry sky on their faces?

Countless fantasies bloomed, blossomed, and exploded in his mind like fireworks. For an ordinary person, such a mental state is hardly considered healthy.

He walked somewhat unsteadily, bumping into many people along the way and attracting some glares and insults, looking just like a drunken vagrant.

Back in his quiet home, he took off his hat and suit and went to his desk.

He picked up his pen, randomly grabbed a sheet of paper, and began to record his newly born nightmare.

"The human mind cannot connect known things together, and I think that's the kindest thing in the world. We live on a peaceful island called ignorance, surrounded by a vast, dark ocean, but that doesn't mean we should set sail..."

His pen moved quickly, but still couldn't keep up with the speed of his thoughts. While meticulously crafting his writing, his mind had already soared beyond the universe, among the stars, into the distant, ancient, and profound void, atop the indifferent, grand, and majestic palace.

Before he knew it, time had passed, and as the sun set, he finally put down his pen, let out a long sigh, as if he had just used writing to release the messy, trivial things that had been tormenting his mind.

He was a little tired, his forehead was covered in sweat, and he put down his pen, wanting to close the curtains and rest for a while.

Just then, the sound of a flute rang out.

This was not a common flute; rather, it seemed to be some novel instrument from the East. He had heard some street performers play it in New York, and he had thought it was an extremely cheerful instrument.

But now, the music sounds mournful and melancholic; despite its high pitch, it cannot conceal the sadness within.

He listened intently, not knowing how much time had passed, until moonlight shone through the window, falling on the words on the manuscript paper and giving it a hazy sheen.

He picked up his pen and had some new ideas, which made him ready to finish writing the story.

Several days later, still troubled by nightmares and those faint murmurs, he finally finished the book. The entire creative process was exhilarating, and his sleep quality even improved significantly during the writing process.

After reviewing his story again, he felt quite satisfied, but before that, he felt it was necessary to listen to his friend's advice.

He had someone copy the manuscript, then took out an envelope, carefully folded the copy, stuffed it inside, and took out another sheet of paper, flattened it, and began to write a letter in elegant and neat handwriting.

"My dear friend, as you know, I've been suffering from insomnia and nightmares lately. These trivial matters are tormenting my mind and making it impossible for me to find peace. I took your advice and watched some popular movies recently, and I must say, they gave me some clever inspiration. I've incorporated them into a story and written a fairly good one, which I've enclosed with this letter..."

"...As mentioned above, I plan to submit this article in the hope of earning some money to support my life. I don't have many strengths; I can only write for people's amusement. If you have any criticisms or suggestions, please reply as soon as possible. Don't worry that they will hurt me."

After finishing the letter, he thought about it for a moment, and then signed it at the end.

"...Your faithful friend, H.P. Lovecraft."

End of the book