Pretend to be crazy

Ruan Zhixian was a lunatic.

Qi Cong stared at his terminal, where the call had been unilaterally hung up, and felt an even stronger sense of absurdity.

All he did was take a look at that little toy—he hadn’t even touched him yet. Was that really worth this level of rage?

He sneered and put away the terminal.

Fine.

Threatening him? Saying he wasn’t allowed to touch? Did he think he would be afraid?

…He actually was.

He valued his life. If Ruan Zhixian really lost it, like he did two years ago, and started chasing him down in a fit of madness, that would be a problem.

If he couldn’t act openly, he could always do it in the dark.

He didn’t know what was so amusing about Shen Yan.

If Ruan Zhixian liked his little toy for being pure and naive, then all he had to do was ruin that.

Supreme wealth and power—those alone were enough to make ordinary people outside District One lose themselves.

To become vain, arrogant, greedy, and insecure.

To do anything to hold onto the endless pleasures rushing toward them, no matter the cost.

Heh.

Ruan Zhixian had a unique taste, but he definitely wouldn’t be able to tolerate this.

Qi Cong typed a short command into his terminal, sending it to a subordinate within the church.

[Grant Shen Yan’s every request.]

Shen Yan’s priest, Fang Luo, had been summoned at 3 AM by the Pope, who droned on about a bunch of newly invented church doctrines.

On the surface, he seemed devout. Inside, he wanted to burn the world to the ground.

This idiotic church had the most inhuman schedule—24/7, year-round, always on call, filled with endless meetings. Yesterday’s newly created doctrine, painstakingly memorized, could be overturned the very next day for some arbitrary reason.

And on top of that, they banned all electronic devices, insisting that everything be discussed in person. The inefficiency was infuriating.

Only an idiot would believe in this nonsense.

After sleeping just five hours in three days, Fang Luo was ready to commit mass destruction. His exceptional professionalism, however, ensured that none of his frustration showed.

He bowed his head in obedience, extracting the key points from the Pope’s long-winded, cryptic sermon.

Lust. The divine child in his womb was supreme. The full resources of the church were to be dedicated to him alone, fulfilling his every need. The priest was merely a conduit, a servant… balabala…

The more Fang Luo listened, the more puzzled he became.

Shen Yan—elevated by the supposed divine pregnancy?

Male pregnancy was biologically impossible for an unmodified natural human.

Even in the past seven hours, there was no way he could have undergone a full genetic transformation.

The so-called child was nothing more than the fantasy of whoever had violated Shen Yan—some twisted fetish, a desire to see him panic and collapse.

Or worse.

Men couldn’t get pregnant.

But Shen Yan was so deeply devoted to this ridiculous cult that, when he inevitably failed to give birth, the church could simply blame him for his incompetence.

Stripped of his status as the Holy Son, he would be handed over as a personal slave to some pervert.

Locked away, kept in captivity—until his owner grew bored and discarded him.

Fang Luo had spent five years in the security force. He had seen enough of the upper class’s depravity to recognize the routine.

Grant every request.

But the Pope’s tone suggested that he wasn’t merely planning to turn Shen Yan into a slave.

Slaves were just pets. Their masters dressed them up, but never allowed them to indulge in their own desires or ask for anything they weren’t given.

Yet “grant every request” implied something much broader. And whoever was behind this was truly audacious, as if they could give anything.

On the way to the sanctuary, Fang Luo kept mulling it over, sensing something off but unable to pinpoint what.

Still, it was to his advantage.

If what the Pope said was true, then controlling Shen Yan would be equivalent to controlling the entire church. Manipulating the situation would be easy.

He might even be able to follow the trail and bring down some high-ranking criminals.

But as he approached the sanctuary doors, he unexpectedly felt a wave of nervousness.

Taking a deep breath, he touched the prayer beads on his wrist and reminded himself: Today, do not act out of character.

Then, he pushed open the door.

Inside, the sanctuary was filled with entirely inappropriate treasures for a religious institution.

From gleaming gold and rare jewels to top-of-the-line gaming pods and high-end entertainment systems—a whole wall was stacked with extravagant offerings.

Shen Yan stood in the middle of it all, visibly at a loss. When he saw Fang Luo, his eyes immediately lit up with relief, as if he had just found his savior.

He took two quick steps toward him but then hesitated, suddenly remembering something. Slowing down, he nodded reservedly, waiting for Fang Luo to approach instead.

For now, it seemed that Fang Luo’s status was beneath his.

Whatever had been said to Shen Yan today had subtly changed him.

From an obedient little lamb—he now had a few soft, barely-there thorns.

Fang Luo walked forward, lowered his head, and murmured a reverent “Ana.”

Only then did Shen Yan truly acknowledge him. “Father, is this God’s reward for me? But… the scriptures say that the Holy Son must bear the sins of the world. I… do I deserve this?”

Fang Luo spoke sternly, “Shen Yan, never speak such self-deprecating words again. The divine child is supreme. The entire world revolves around him. You should not be asking whether you deserve these things—”

He looked at the lavish gifts surrounding them.

“You should be asking whether these things deserve you.”

Shen Yan looked at him in confusion and repeated, “Am I worthy?”

Fang Luo silently sighed in his heart. His expression softened, and he half-knelt before Shen Yan, placing one hand over his chest in an extremely deferential gesture.

“Before the Holy Son is born, all your wishes should be fulfilled. You must rest in all honor—this is God’s divine gift.”

Shen Yan remained silent, as if digesting the priest’s words. After a moment, he carefully commanded, “Father, could you peel an apple for me?”

The priest replied, “Of course.”

An apple was an ordinary fruit, but the priest immediately summoned people. Soon, several plates of apples, each of a different variety and of superior quality, were neatly arranged and presented.

Under Shen Yan’s watchful gaze, the priest deftly peeled an apple, the skin spiraling down in a perfect, continuous strip.

He cut the remaining fruit into bite-sized pieces, placed them in a delicate bone china dish, and handed them to Shen Yan.

Shen Yan didn’t eat it. “Peel another one.”

“Yes.”

Another plate of freshly peeled apples appeared. Shen Yan narrowed his eyes, his gaze flickering with an unreadable light. He lounged on a nearby recliner, resting his chin on his hand. “Keep going.”

“Yes.”

As the number of apples on the plate dwindled, the confusion on Shen Yan’s face lessened. By the time the last apple was being peeled, Fang Luo’s hands were trembling slightly.

His gaze landed on the priest’s quivering fingertips, and he suddenly chuckled.

“I understand now.”

He stood up and, just as he had easily accepted his role as the Holy Son, he now just as effortlessly embraced all the power it bestowed upon him.

He approached the priest, who instinctively bowed. He gently lifted the priest’s chin, his tone imperious. “Prepare a car for me. I want to go shopping.”

Fang Luo’s heart grew colder, sinking lower. He lowered his head and softly replied, “Yes.”

Shen Yan had been confined to the underground castle for nearly half a month. Finally, he ascended to the surface, where a sleek, futuristic hover car awaited him.

He first curiously touched it, then exaggerated the look of satisfaction on his face as if indulging in his vanity. He opened the door and got in.

Not in the passenger seat.

The priest reminded him, and he frowned. “I don’t have a driver’s license, but I’m carrying the Holy Son inside me. I want to try driving. Go coordinate traffic so I don’t hit anyone.”

The priest: “…”

The priest: “Understood.”

While the priest was handling the arrangements, Shen Yan experimented with the controls. The car’s user-friendly interface made it easy to pick up, and the original book’s author had explained its operation. He quickly got the hang of it.

Expressionless, he glanced at the priest outside the car, his mind full of wicked ideas.

Not just mischief—true audacity.

Something that would make most people condemn him, perhaps even push Ruan Zhixian toward murderous intent.

Ruan Zhixian was uninvolved, so the only one capable of setting him up this way was the Church’s benefactor from District One.

Maybe they wanted to see him fall, to watch the once-pure Holy Son become a slave to wealth and power.

So be it.

He had joined this cult just to have a vacation anyway. Now that things had developed like this, why not enjoy it? Play around. Waste money.

He couldn’t help but smile. The priest turned back just in time to catch the fleeting expression, his gaze briefly freezing before he composed himself and entered the passenger seat as usual.

Now dressed in haute couture instead of his Holy Son robes, Shen Yan cast a natural, disdainful glance at the priest. “Get out. You annoy me.”

Fang Luo had never seen someone change faces so quickly—turning from a meek lamb into an arrogant thorn in just three hours.

Had he been pretending before?

No. If it were an act, he should be more cautious. After all, when given an unexpected windfall, a normal person would tread carefully to avoid falling into a trap.

Shen Yan truly believed he was carrying the Holy Son, which was why he accepted his privileges so comfortably.

The priest was silent for a few seconds. “But—”

Shen Yan cut him off, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “I don’t want to hear ‘but.’ Father, you talk too much.”

Fang Luo: “…Understood.”

Fang Luo got out of the car. The hover car sped away without hesitation.

Watching the vehicle disappear into the distance, Fang Luo’s thumb slowly rubbed his knuckle.

It seemed he needed to adjust his approach to controlling Shen Yan.

Shen Yan bought an obscene amount of extravagant, useless things.

The priest had given him a limitless credit card, along with a conveniently annotated list of different servants and their roles.

Shen Yan immediately summoned thirty people to accompany him on a shopping spree, spending lavishly in the busiest part of the commercial district. He even withdrew large sums of cash and threw it around like a lunatic.

Praise him—3,000 credits. Praise him exceptionally well—30,000.

Declare unwavering belief in his Holy Son status and join the Church—50,000.

His actions were crude and blatant. He openly declared that unauthorized religious organizations were illegal. After half an hour of throwing money around, the security force arrived and arrested him.

Even while being detained, he maintained his brazen demeanor, flinging stacks of cash at the armed officers and boasting that his money could buy their lives. He ordered them to obey him.

His arrogance was quickly recorded and uploaded online, where comments flooded in.

“This guy is insane. Religion has rotted his brain. divine descent? You’d have to be an idiot to believe in that.”

“Damn, I should’ve gone out today. Hope the guards let him off so I can get some money tomorrow.”

Regardless, Shen Yan and the Divine descent Society stirred up a small storm on the internet, leaving a faint imprint in the public’s mind.

Inside the jail cell, Shen Yan appeared dazed, as if finally realizing he should be afraid. He clung to the bars, staring at the guards outside, and murmured,

“I am the Holy Son. I carry the Divine Child. Your disrespect will not go unpunished by God!”

One of the guards grinned and tapped his baton against the bars. Seeing his startled expression, he smirked. “Enough with the nonsense. When are your people coming to bail you out?”

The thirty people Shen Yan had brought along were also detained.

They had enjoyed the thrill of wielding borrowed power, only slightly more polite than Shen Yan himself.

Given the number of laws they had broken, their bail amounts were substantial—enough to drop a third-class citizen down to fourth-class overnight.

But for this pretty but foolish “Holy Son,” it was likely just pocket change.

He looked like some rich family’s pampered young master—spoiled, naive, indulged in his whims. When he decided to play Holy Son, his family simply funded the fantasy.

The guard grabbed him by the collar through the bars, making him lean backward. “You—what are you doing?!”

“You offended me just now. Pay up if you don’t want trouble.”

Worried that Shen Yan wouldn’t get the message, the guard repeated, “Pay. Me. Money.”

Shen Yan glanced at the baton in the guard’s other hand and shrank back. “Of course, of course. God loves all people, and He loves you too. How much do you want?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

Shen Yan’s eyes widened. “Five hundred thousand?! How dare you!”

The guard sneered. “You handed out way more than that on the streets. Why is there none left for me?”

Shen Yan: “If you convert to the faith, I’ll give you a million.”

The guard hesitated, released him, and cleared his throat.

“So… what’s the ritual? How do I join?”

Shen Yan demonstrated the Church’s hand gestures, murmuring, “The thumb on top signifies respect for God. The moment the fingers interlace, one can hear the divine voice. The left hand placed between the index and middle fingers represents supreme glory. Now, repeat after me—”Shen Yan: “May the True God bless us, and may we enjoy eternal bliss.”

The guard: “May the True God bless us, and may we enjoy eternal bliss—so when does it actually arrive?”

“When I get out.” Shen Yan spotted Fang Luo approaching and immediately put on airs, waving at him. “My family is here! Father, over here!”

Fang Luo, who had just walked in: “…”

Under the skeptical gazes of the officers, Fang Luo used an unconfiscated terminal to pay the bail—plus an extra million.

His expression remained cold as he watched Shen Yan and the others leave the station, ensuring they were out of earshot before turning to the officer who was staring blankly at the terminal’s balance. He patted him on the shoulder and warned, “Taking bribes over 100,000 gets you two to five years. You—”

“Not my problem.” The officer interrupted him. “May the True God bless us, and may we enjoy eternal bliss. Ana.”

Fang Luo: “…”

Things were starting to take a bizarre turn.

The higher-ups had given Shen Yan 200 million, and he hadn’t even managed to spend it all in a week.

This couldn’t go on.

At Fang Luo’s suggestion, Shen Yan officially registered a club under the name of the Divine Descent Society. On the very first day, membership exceeded ten thousand.

Shen Yan distributed 5,000 to 10,000 to each member, burning through nearly 100 million. When the money ran out, he ordered the priest to ask for more.

Fang Luo watched coldly, using this as an opportunity to gauge the true depth of the Church’s backers.

This time, they refused to give him any more money.

Then, the District 13 Governor himself arrived, surrounded by an entourage, taking countless photos with Shen Yan.

Shen Yan stood beside the Governor like a lucky mascot, smiling when told to smile, shaking hands when instructed, hosting ceremonies as needed.

Accompanying the Governor were several prominent local capitalists, including the leader of District 13’s largest gang, Lotus City’s boss, Lianzi.

Lianzi was full of praise for Shen Yan, saying that in his entire life, he had never met someone as devout as him. To the lost and aimless masses who had abandoned their faith, Shen Yan was a light in the darkness.

Besides him, the other six members of the “Seven Deadly Sins” also attended the grand meeting.

Compared to Shen Yan, who was dazzling and flamboyant, they seemed utterly unremarkable—almost as if they were there solely to serve as his backdrop.

A crowd of reporters documented the touching occasion. After two and a half hours of simple discussions on District 13’s economy, politics, and ideological development, the meeting finally ended.

A private banquet followed. Shen Yan was surrounded by District 13’s most influential figures—people he had only ever seen on social media—who showered him with attention.

The gang leader Lianzi, who bore a striking resemblance to Fei Shen, warmly took his hand and said he looked forward to Shen Yan visiting Lotus City. “You don’t need to bring money. Just show up, and the whole city will serve you.”

The others were quick to follow suit, eager to show their favor, treating him like a long-lost relative.

Even Fang Luo—an experienced undercover operative who had endured the temptations of power—couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy and jealousy.

He glanced at the expressions of the other six.

Wrath and Envy were like estranged sisters, quietly tending to themselves. Wrath focused on taking care of her younger sister, occasionally giving her food.

The younger sister, more reserved, ate quietly but occasionally stole glances at Shen Yan when her sister wasn’t looking.

Gluttony, as expected, was entirely focused on eating. A tall, muscular man, he devoured food without pause, eyes gleaming with reverence for Ana’s blessings.

Sloth, ever the obedient one, sat curled up at the table, absentmindedly playing with the food on his plate. His knife and fork moved slowly, slicing into the meat at an almost torturous pace.

The most ambitious among them was Pride. Though he appeared refined and indifferent to social affairs, he was, in truth, cunning. He knew when to lower himself, was well-versed in the world, and had high emotional intelligence. Before long, he had maneuvered his way closer to Shen Yan, playing the role of his right-hand man.

Fang Luo watched in silence as, in just the span of one meal, Shen Yan transformed.

He had started out cautious and overwhelmed, but by the end, he was laughing, clinking glasses, and casually rubbing shoulders with these people—as if he had always belonged among them.

There was even a faint hint of condescension in his gaze toward the others.

Terrifying.

Not just Shen Yan’s incredible adaptability, but also the sheer power of the entity backing this entire cult.

If the District 13 Governor and so many influential figures were all smiles in his presence, then the forces behind this movement had already grown beyond what a mere Security Corps Captain like Fang Luo could hope to control.

His eyes darkened.

But he still wanted to try.

If the Divine Descent Society was allowed to develop unchecked—if Shen Yan was permitted to run rampant—then District 13’s fragile order would be completely obliterated.

He sighed inwardly, regretting that he hadn’t been harsher on Shen Yan when he first joined the cult.

Had he been more ruthless back then, he would have feared him, respected him, and relied on him—no matter how high he climbed.

But it wasn’t too late.

Shen Yan wasn’t particularly bright. There was still time to set things right.