The mortar fire still ravaged the whitewashed walls of the field clinic.
Lam Tich was kneeling on the floor littered with shards of glass and debris, his bloodied hands pressed tightly against a gaping wound on a child's chest. Around him, the stench of cheap disinfectant mixed with the acrid smell of gunpowder, creating a thick, suffocating atmosphere, heavy with unspoken, unanswered prayers.
"Doctor… save… please save him…" The young mother cried, clinging to the hem of his white lab coat, which was now so stained it was unrecognizable. It was the coat he had worn for six grueling months—a fragile, final symbol of hope in a land consumed by war and forgotten by the world.
Lam Tich did not look up. His eyes were bloodshot from three sleepless nights, but they maintained the surgical, cold focus of a genius. He administered the last remaining dose of anesthetic—a precious, expensive drug he had traded his only watch for—to the boy. A shrapnel piece was lodged in his own leg, soaking his trousers in blood, yet he paid it no mind. For ten years operating in these forsaken lands, he had grown accustomed to treating the pain of others as greater than his own life.
He was Lam Tich, one of the world's foremost cardiothoracic surgeons, who had abandoned the prestige and wealth of the West for this place, where medicine was a luxury, and death was a neighbor. He had sutured hundreds of hearts and lungs, mending the fractured faith of countless broken families. He believed fiercely in the power of kindness, convinced that people, even in the darkest circumstances, would remember the grace of a saved life.
"Don't be afraid, I'm here." His voice was hoarse, yet strangely gentle. That voice, a delicate hymn, was the only true sedative for the refugees huddled in the basement.
That evening, after the child had passed the critical threshold, Lam Tich quietly shared his meager rations with the refugees. He offered a faint smile, a pure, innocent expression, as if unaware that outside, the rebel militia had placed a ten-thousand-dollar bounty on the head of anyone daring to aid their "enemies."
But that smile vanished when he heard the rhythmic stomping of boots and the ominous click of rifle bolts. The rebels had arrived.
Lam Tich rose, intending to urge everyone to hide. However, the first cold, black muzzle pointed at him did not come from the doorway; it came from the hand of the very man whose wound he had stitched just that afternoon. A bullet had torn through the man's shoulder, yet that same hand now aimed squarely at Lam Tich's life. And he was not alone.
The entire crowd, the people he had saved, sheltered, and nourished, descended upon him like a starving pack of wolves. It was not the aggression of an enemy, but the sickening betrayal of "family."
"They said… if we hand you over, they will give the entire village food and medicine for a month." The man's hands trembled, but his finger stayed on the trigger. Fear had transmuted into vile greed. "Doctor Lam, you are a good man… surely you would want to save us one last time, wouldn't you?"
The words struck him like a dagger to the heart, shattering his life's philosophy. Save them one last time? He stood frozen, unable, unwilling to resist. Dozens of arms—the very arms he had bandaged, the very bones he had reset—lunged at him. They didn't use guns; they feared damaging the valuable "asset." Instead, they used the white medical gauze, the very symbol of life, to tightly bind him to the bloody operating table.
He looked around. The eyes he had saved now stared back with a desperate, cowardly craving for survival. Not a single person stood up. Not a single voice protested. The collective silence of the crowd was far more painful than any gunshot.
He looked down at his own hands—hands meant only for saving lives—and for the first time, he felt them shake with an emotion other than exhaustion. It was a profound emptiness, a throttled, suffocating fury.
A saint dies not by his enemies, but by those he loves and helps the most.
When the cold blade pressed against his neck, Lam Tich did not beg. He simply stared into the man's eyes and hissed, the sound a ragged whisper of despair:
"I gave you life, and you used it to purchase safety from my death. Kindness without fangs… is truly a sin!"
Darkness enveloped him. A soul-tearing agony made him want to scream, but his throat felt as if it were filled with molten lead. He distinctly felt every knife stroke, every agonizing slice delivered by the people he had considered his community, the raw, savage tearing of his body, as if they were gleefully shedding the heavy burden of their debt of gratitude.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw no field clinic. He saw a vaulted, dark stone ceiling, towering high and covered in intricate, crimson symbols like dried blood. The pain in this new body was exponentially worse than his execution in the previous life. The meridians in his body felt like over-stretched harp strings that had snapped and withered—a clear, devastating sign of his cultivation being forcibly abolished.
He lay in an iron cage, so narrow he couldn't turn over, his limbs shackled by heavy iron rings. The smell of decay, putrefaction, and sulfur signaled that this was not a place for the living, but the Eternal Dungeon—the holding cell for sacrifices to the Evil God.
"Lam Tich… the Lam clan's waste…" A scornful voice echoed from above, accompanied by the sharp click of heels on the stone floor. It belonged to the warden, a man who had once been a low-ranking subordinate in the Lam family. "Tomorrow is the Great Sacrifice Ceremony. You should feel honored that your worthless life finally holds some value to be offered to the Evil God."
Lam Tich remained still. He did not resist, nor did he tremble. He was busy processing the change. In his mind, memories of a scorned young master, whose cultivation had been deliberately crippled by his own family to replace him with a more favored scion, intertwined with the deep-seated hatred of his previous life. The anger was no longer explosive; it had condensed into cold, glacial steel.
He twitched his fingers slightly. It hurt, but it was real. I am reborn.
He looked through the bars, seeing other prisoners weeping, praying to their gods for salvation. He remained silent, the blind eyes (according to this body's memory) staring into the void.
His benevolence had died in the grave of betrayal on Earth. In this Azure Realm, in this deep dungeon, what was awakening was not a life-saving doctor, but an iron will: No faith, no plea, no salvation.
"I will not beg the gods," Lam Tich murmured, his voice a cold whisper blending with the clatter of chains. "I will become their nightmare."
As the words faded, a soft whoosh sound resonated. It wasn't an external noise, but an echo from the depths of his soul. Before Lam Tich's vision, a dark, ethereal interface appeared, not a typical leveling-up screen, but an exquisite box made of obsidian stone.
[Identification Confirmed: Waste Body, Rebellious Will.]
[Initiating Void Mechanism.]
The box opened, revealing a pitch-black object—formless, yet concrete—hovering like a miniature black hole. It pulsated with silent, terrible energy. Lam Tich felt an instinctive pull, a recognition that this was the answer to his newly forged malice.
[Welcome, Transmigrator. You possess no Divine Spark, but you possess the highest level of Deception. This is the "Veil of the Void". Your power is directly proportional to the "Credibility of the Lie."]
[Rule 1: If the entire world believes you are a God, you are a God within their collective consciousness.]
[Rule 2: If the lie is exposed, your soul will be instantly consumed by the Void.]
Lam Tich smirked, a cruel, calculating curve of the lips utterly devoid of humanity. The tightrope had been handed to him, and beneath was an abyss. He would walk that line, forcing all the arrogant "Divine Spark" bearers in this realm to become props in his own magnificent play.
"I accept." He paused, his blind eyes gleaming with a terrifying, intellectual light. The game was dangerous, but the stakes were glorious. He began to analyze the potential of the system, his mind running simulations on how to craft the perfect, multi-layered deception. He wouldn't just lie; he would build worlds of lies, each supporting the next, creating a fortress of untruth.
The first lie must be small but profound. The lie of the "Blind, Good-Natured Healer" to gain trust. The second, the "Shadow Overlord," to enforce fear and create the perfect storm of crisis.
"In this life, I will not save the world," he mused, the coldness spreading through his veins, extinguishing the last embers of his past self. "I will stage a play until the entire world kneels at my feet. Starting tomorrow, the Evil God, the Holy Maiden, the Emperors... all shall be my puppets."
Lam Tich felt the iron shackles biting into his wrists, but he no longer registered the pain. He was already planning his grand exit from the dungeon, the first step in his journey as The Nocturne of the Deceiver of Gods. The Great Sacrifice Ceremony? It would become his inaugural performance.