"We're killing him! We're killing him! We're killing him!" cried the voice of ten million little flies. Countless small gray wings with fluttering edges rolled up a tattered storm and rushed towards the skeleton behind the calculation table.
Icha turned sideways to allow the flow of flies to pass smoothly, and at the same time gently pushed Yimaiz forward.
"You can't possibly—" The original Olympian's voice was cut off by the trembling of his wings. He was drowned in a storm of gray dots. Regardless of whether his gray wrinkled brain had admitted this logic before, he was surprised to find that as an experienced undead creature, he had recovered many things that could only be felt while alive. After coming to the Vientiane Forest, he had been forced to recover many things that he could only have in life - the one he was recovering at the moment was the most illogical one, it was on his tongue (he didn't even know he still had this thing), making The shriveled thing began to rattle.
That feeling is...
Taste.
Metz tasted death again.
The taste of death on your tongue. It's a bit familiar, I want to get close, I'm trying to evoke something. These things have nothing to do with the glory of the Mathematical Olympiad. One Metz thinks so. atmosphere. trick. story. Anger, pleasure. It has nothing to do with the glory of Mathematical Olympiad. If he has proofs and writes them down, he feels it is very necessary to prove that they are irrelevant and unnecessary.
He moved his arm and the fly landed ferociously on his arm.
They had lots of little furry feet and started walking on him. They kick away the rapidly secreting sweat and cause a sensation on the skin. He shouldn't feel anything on his skin. Even when he was alive he couldn't feel it in such a subtle way. Now he felt them.
It's prickly and a little itchy. They seemed to fall directly on his heart. Undead creatures have no hearts. Not before recovery. This is also something that has nothing to do with the glory of the Mathematical Olympiad. Olympiad brilliance does not include death and things after death. At least that's his calculation.
No other guy knows about this. They don't need to know either. Because most of them are alive. Even his direct apprentices, apprentices' apprentices, other factions that established themselves, and hearsay enthusiasts are all still alive. They thought this was just another axiom of Olympiad, just like a circle is smooth and straight lines extend to both sides——
Straight lines extend to both sides. Restored extension of consciousness. His heart tightened from nowhere. There is no way to resist the taste of death. Now he also has a taste in his chest. It feels sour, bitter, and cold.
(Is cold something that can be felt by the sense of taste? Then he may have regained another feeling, and the feelings returned one by one before all the feelings disappeared completely.)
I will die.
It finally occurred to Metz, once again thinking rather than calculating. He found himself thinking rather than calculating. One second he was doing mental arithmetic at high speed, and the next second those numbers and calculations stopped working like a universal problem-solving machine without a mechanic and tung oil, and suddenly fell into dust.
Buzz buzz. Flies got into his eyes. I can’t count how many.
Beelzebub really wanted to kill him this time. This time, Chaint will allow her to kill him. Just like he promised. Like his previous calculations, the Lord of Hell was far from reaching the limit of what was possible. He had never been able to get her to use her full strength. Even she and Ichaint couldn't get her to use her full strength. This is the Lord of Chaos.
There is a breaking point here. The kind that can be calculated. He knew it clearly. And there are two breakthrough points. Beelzebub. Take Chaint.
What does Chaint want to do? This guy can also reflect the glory of the Mathematical Olympiad. The only such demon. He should know very well——
But now Imetz cannot calculate these breaking points.
The taste of death marks them as "incalculable".
There was something on his brain, something on his tongue, something between his guts. They will soon grow fangs and break out of their bodies. Break through those newly restored skin.
I will be killed, I will die. Metz finally thought. A dead soul who has been killed and died, a dead soul who is not afraid of death and has been killed. Feeling killed again will kill you. The taste of death. familiar. Dear. Incalculable. Beyond the glory of the Mathematical Olympiad. The feeling wanted to wake him up. Like regaining a feeling he never even had.
Wake him up. Torture him.
What kind of character are you?
Do you have - what kind of story?
What kind of atmosphere do you bring?
In your case – what techniques were used?
Secret story. Contains those arrogant logic and willing development. They hold the world hostage, forcing it to admit its mistakes. He can admit his mistakes. This is part of the glory of the Mathematical Olympiad.
But they still wanted him to remember. Let him remember. Let him feel it. In their logic, these things are extremely important. It is more important than all basic assumptions, more important than the equal sign, and more important than "obviously" plus "omitted" after "solution" plus "colon".
They forced him to use parallelism.
The taste of death.
Who are you?
Do you have something to hide?
What kind of persecution have you suffered?
Your selfish thoughts and feelings - where do you want to direct them?
Your pain, hesitation, joy and entanglement——
Before your life and after your death——
You can't - it's that simple.
You can't be that simple. Because arcane stories are "too boring" like this. If you don't smile all the time, people will expect you to smile. If you stay strong, people will expect your breakdown. If you preach reason with a straight face, you're bound to cry or laugh out loud at some point. Because that’s what arcane stories are. Willy Shaw told it, and Chaint explained it. He found himself clear when death interrupted his calculations.
"This is our story." As Chaint said. In the first type of secret story of Vientiane Forest, he is an unqualified character. He ruins the right atmosphere. It can be seen from previous evidence that atmosphere is the most important source of power in arcane stories. Even he himself said that he needed strength.
So the proof is complete.
Come to think of it. Come. Undead. The taste of death spoke to him. You have lived. Like those lost feelings you once had. So think about it, you have your story, background, elements, and settings. You are by no means just a boring mathematician or calculation machine.
The taste of death is all too familiar. He acknowledged this fact. After death, you remain dead. So this is the thing that most awakens him to become a qualified character.
bring it on. Come.
"Okay." He thought to himself. Mathematical Olympiad admits its mistake.
The taste of death spread throughout my body. He was about to die completely again. It broke our hearts.
But it woke nothing.
He has been dead for too long.
This is indeed ridiculous.
Metz finally laughed.
This was at 8:15.
Between eight fifteen minutes and one second and three seconds, the storm of small gray wings rushed to the original arcana mage and penetrated into every crevice of those ancient bones.
Between 8:15:02 and 04 seconds, the image of the energy pattern broke, and the golden eyes broke out of the mirror like a star that suddenly rose.
