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Chapter 430. The Story of the Third Cycle [2 Reincarnations] (7)

"Hahaha, little green monster!"

As dusk fell, the little girl, who was leaning against the garbage heap and covered in dirt, suddenly opened her eyes.

She found herself curled up in a ball, her body having shrunk by a whole size.

The crimson sunset slanted across the discarded debris, illuminating the group of children laughing and playing around her.

"Little monster, little monster, little monster that glows green!"

"Hehehehe—hahaha—little monster!"

After they had sung enough, they dispersed in a flurry.

Vera was left sitting there, staring blankly at her hands.

...Was it a dream?

wrong.

She clearly remembered that the god, dressed in a black robe and holding a black scythe, swung his blade at her after saying those words.

The boundless black energy engulfed her, completely suppressing even her healing power.

His body shattered into millions of golden rays in an instant, and his consciousness sank into the deepest darkness.

...and then, she woke up here.

Vera sat in the twilight, the setting sun bathing the entire street in a gentle golden glow.

There were no corpses by the roadside, no rotting plague patients, and no sign of the madwoman carrying a basket, crying and laughing.

She went back to before the nightmare began.

But the nightmare has not yet happened.

Vila made its move.

"Om————"

A burst of intense and pure green light quietly emerged in her small palm.

It is her healing power.

The timeline of the entire world was reset, but her power and everything she had experienced were not erased.

The countless medical knowledge she had studied day and night in the first cycle was now clearly imprinted in her mind, and the powerful healing power she had forged was still flowing in her body.

Those days and nights accumulated in the darkness, those struggles unknown to anyone, have now all transformed into a second beginning, a higher starting line.

Vera clenched her hands tightly, her nails almost digging into her palms.

Facing the setting sun on the horizon, she finally couldn't hold back her tears and burst into sobs.

Tears blurred my vision and washed away a little dirt on my face.

Her shoulders trembled as she cried, almost unable to breathe, as if she were pouring out all the emotions from her past life into these tears.

Finally, she sniffed hard, raised her sleeve, and bravely wiped away the tears on her face, little by little.

The little girl, her eyes red from crying, looked up at the sky dyed golden red by the setting sun, feeling the immense knowledge and powerful strength contained within her small body.

The sorrow and lamentation in the previous life's desperate situation have transformed into a new understanding.

How could hard work be useless?

—Strive hard, it's clearly the most useful thing in the world.

The dirty beggar girl stood up from beside the garbage heap and ran towards the largest newspaper office on the street.

There, a young man wearing a colorful top hat was holding his manuscript, his face flushed, arguing vehemently:

"Sir! Please take another look! Every single piece of data here was meticulously recorded by me during my on-site investigation! I even prepaid the printing deposit, so your newspaper has no reason to refuse!"

The newspaper owner impatiently chased him away:

"Get out of here! Who would dare publish this for you! Get the hell out of here!"

"boom--"

The heavy wooden door was slammed shut without mercy, the loud noise causing dust to fall from the door frame.

The boy was locked out completely.

He stared at the door, his chest heaving violently, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, and finally, in a fit of rage, he slammed his fist into the hard door panel, producing a dull thud.

Just as he was feeling dizzy from the frustration, a faint but clear voice pierced through the noise of the street and entered his ears.

Andorra!

Andor instinctively turned around and found a little girl who was almost blending into the dirty corner of the wall behind her.

She was pitifully thin, her face covered in patches of what appeared to be mud or coal stains, making her original skin color unrecognizable.

The "clothes" she was wearing barely resembled a skirt; they were actually haphazardly sewn together from several pieces of rags of different colors and textures, with uneven edges and dried, hardened mud clinging to the hem. This was the typical appearance of a beggar commonly seen in impoverished neighborhoods.

Andor frowned, but a hint of surprise in his eyes was quickly replaced by curiosity.

He didn't show the usual disgust or pity; after only a slight hesitation, he naturally squatted down, bringing his gaze to the girl's level, and his tone was even quite gentle:

"Little sister, what did you just call your brother?"

Andorra.

The little girl called out again in a clear voice.

The boy in the floral hat in front of me said with a grin:

“My brother’s name isn’t Andor, it’s Elson. Little sister, you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

He reached out, intending to soothe the little girl next door by gently stroking her tangled hair, but his hand stopped abruptly just as his fingertips touched the rough ends.

Because the girl raised her clear eyes, so calm and so different from her dirty appearance, and looked at him, she spoke slowly and deliberately, her voice not loud, but each word clear:

“Your name is Andor, and you are a con artist. What you are holding is the manuscript of ‘Finance and Faith’.”

She clapped her hands and added:
"Oh, by the way. You haven't been able to publish it successfully yet."

The air seemed to freeze.

The boy could no longer laugh.

He lowered his hand, stared at the little girl for a few seconds, and finally slowly stood up.

Andorra removed his colorful top hat, pressed it to his chest, and bowed slightly, giving an impeccable greeting.

When he looked up again, all the frivolity or pretense on his face had vanished, leaving only cold vigilance and inquiry:
"who are you?"

Vera hadn't actually decided on an identity yet, but almost subconsciously, a word slipped onto her tongue and was uttered in a calm, almost indifferent tone that belied her age:

"I am a prophet."

She didn't really know how to be a prophet, but a vague intuition seemed to calm her down, and she spoke in a steady and guiding tone:

“I know where I can publish your manuscript.”

Having experienced the entire first cycle of reincarnation, she naturally knew which newspaper Andorra's manuscript was ultimately published in.

She also knew the disaster this manuscript would bring to him personally.

But there's no rush to say that.

The feelings of a person in dire straits are the most profound.

The moment she successfully predicted both times, her false identity was easily established.

Upon hearing the little girl's words, Andorra's eyes flashed with hesitation and struggle.

He is a con artist with countless names and identities; his real name has never been known to anyone.

—If she wasn't a prophet, how did she know her own name?

The moment that thought arose, he looked into the girl's eyes again.

Those eyes reflected the dim light of the street. There was no childlike innocence, no beggar's humble pleading, and no cunning glint in them. There was only a bottomless, almost cold calm, and a chilling certainty.

In that instant, he believed.

The boy in the floral hat paused for a moment, then put his hat back on, flicked off non-existent dust, and his tone became lighthearted:

"Alright, dear little prophet. You've hit a nerve. Publishing that thing is indeed my most pressing wish right now."

He shrugged, making a helpless yet playful gesture:
"Here's a fair trade. You tell me the name and address of that newspaper, and in return, I'll treat you to a stay at my inn, with food and lodging provided, and I'll show you around the interesting places in town."

"How about it? The reward is pretty generous, isn't it?"

Andorra was certainly not stupid. If the girl was bait sent by an adversary to set a trap, or part of some conspiracy he did not yet understand, close and continuous observation was undoubtedly the best way to expose the trick.

The most sensible course of action is to use the promise of "generous rewards" to keep uncertain risks under close watch.

Vera tilted her dirty little face up and returned his bright smile.

A new cycle begins, and the first step in every plan is always to escape poverty.

She needed warm food to fill her convulsing stomach, clean clothes to replace the tattered, smelly rags, and a safe and stable place to stay so she could think things through.

And all of this, the ambitious but impoverished young con artist in front of us, happens to be able to provide.

Everything is going perfectly.

Despite being dressed in tattered clothes, she still performed an elegant curtsy:

"Of course, sir."

Her voice was clear and steady:
"Thank you for your generosity. May our cooperation bring us... the rewards we deserve."

The best-selling selection will be released on the 30th, and there will be two updates on the day it is released.