Chapter 13: The Tome of Darkness

Why do you keep changing the subject… Robbie frowned, clearly in a foul mood. “That has nothing to do with you.”

His parents had died young; his uncle was his only family, raising both him and his brother—a debt he could never forget, nor dare to. He’d already died once, struck a bargain with the devil, his brother’s legs were shattered, his uncle imprisoned. Three devastating blows within a month—Robbie thought it remarkable he’d survived this long. Now, bringing this up again was rubbing salt in his wounds. Was this boy doing it on purpose?

Yes, I am doing it on purpose… Old Wang leaned against the hood of the car and tapped the metal. “Your uncle worked at a place called ‘Power New Energy Laboratory.’ There was an accident there a few days ago. All his colleagues died—he was the only survivor. So he’s been charged with involuntary manslaughter; some even think it was murder, only there’s no proof. Am I wrong?”

Robbie didn’t answer, just stared at Old Wang, even more upset:

Not only are you rubbing salt in my wounds, you’re cutting them open again. Do you think I don’t feel pain?

Even the dead fear pain.

Old Wang didn’t care; he continued, “He’s smart—one of ten college grads from his high school, and the only one with a doctorate. As a child, he was a petty thief, but he never committed violent crimes. He worked hard, first supporting your mother, then you two. No doubt you think he’s a good man, right?”

Robbie was silent for two seconds. “He is a good man!”

Old Wang smiled at the young man before him—so newly an adult, so easy to sway. “Good and bad aren’t so easily distinguished, Robbie. Most of the time, there’s no clear line. Do you even know what your uncle’s laboratory was really working on?”

Robbie frowned. Fragments of memory flickered.

His uncle bore bitterness but never spoke of it. Lately, he’d grown more withdrawn, more irritable. He seemed dissatisfied with his colleagues, sometimes cursing them as ‘white-skinned fools.’ He’d been convicted of involuntary manslaughter—an accident caused by negligence—but he’d always been so conscientious; how could he make such a grave mistake? What had he really done?

“It was a special lab running a secret project. Your uncle was basically support staff—serving tea, making coffee, handling unimportant tasks, nowhere near the core… the real core.”

Old Wang shrugged. “Don’t look at me like that. Your uncle’s a genius. People say he plagiarized his papers, but to earn a doctorate by copying—doesn’t that take genius? The problem is, everyone else at the lab was even more brilliant, especially the leads, Joseph and Lucy. The true technology was in their hands, and the book that brought it. That’s what your uncle wanted.”

A cold chill swept over Robbie.

Suddenly, he felt disillusioned. The clever, diligent, capable uncle he’d always admired burst like a soap bubble at Old Wang’s words—gone in a flash, faster than a real estate crash. It was only one side of the story, but instinct told him it was true.

This wasn’t just a man’s intuition—it was the Ghost Rider’s, bordering on a sixth or even seventh sense… Well, this isn’t a Saint Seiya novel.

In any case, since making his deal with the devil and believing his soul forfeit, he’d gained abilities beyond any ordinary person: superhuman strength, reflexes, endurance, and perception—

A superman beyond mortals, though not the type who wears his underwear on the outside.

Wait… a book?

“What book?” Robbie caught the key point.

Was it all because of a book?

“The Book of Dark Gods,” Old Wang said, looking at Robbie with a meaningful gaze.

Robbie was stunned.

The Book of Dark Gods? It sounded like something from a video game.

Suddenly, he felt the spirit of vengeance within him stir—it actually reacted to the name? What was going on?

Old Wang’s eyes grew even more meaningful, for he too sensed the spirit’s agitation. Others might be fooled, but not him; though he no longer had his former power, this level of perception remained. Of course the spirit of vengeance would react to the Book of Dark Gods—they were both tied to the world of darkness. Neither was anything good.

No—both were treasures! The spirit of vengeance was powerful; if he traded it to Miss Azeroth, he could surely get a good price in blood.

Of course, the spirit wouldn’t go willingly—it would resist. Old Wang had no intention of destroying it anyway; he couldn’t defeat it yet, and there was no need. The Ghost Rider was such a flamboyant existence—if it was here, why erase it? Robbie made an excellent host: family-oriented, clear-headed, someone Old Wang truly liked.

What he really wanted was the Book of Dark Gods.

It was the source of all black magic in this world, the direct opposite of the Sorcerer Supreme Ancient One’s “Book of the Vishanti,” which contained white magic.

Essentially, the two books were equals.

The value of such a book was self-evident.

To Old Wang, it wasn’t just a book of darkness, but a book-shaped “Blood of Azeroth”—by the barrel!

To use the Heart of Azeroth, he needed to exchange for the Blood of Azeroth. But to get the Blood of Azeroth, he had to trade for it.

In theory, anything could be traded—even dirt, since everything had value.

But here was the problem:

Last night, Old Wang had injected a little true energy, barely activating the Heart of Azeroth to communicate with Miss Azeroth. Only then did he learn that exchanging for the Blood of Azeroth required opening a space-time channel—otherwise, how could it be delivered?

Because of the Heart of Azeroth’s connection to Miss Azeroth, and for reasons Old Wang would never fully grasp, blood was easier to transport than other goods.

Even so, shipping 100 tons required a loss of 2 tons—transport fees, 2% minimum, non-negotiable.

The high cost was one thing, but there was also a minimum, and the fee depended on the quality and volume of the goods.

The bigger and heavier, the higher the fee.

If he tried trading dirt or something similar, it wouldn’t even cover the shipping—the exchange wouldn’t produce so much as a microgram of blood, and he’d have to pay extra.

In short, only items of sufficient value were worth exchanging.

By value, it meant inherent worth, not symbolic meaning.

For instance, if Old Wang tried to trade paper and pens worth ten thousand dollars, Miss Azeroth would prefer the same weight in blank paper—the latter was at least cleaner.

She’d said before: Infinity Stones were high-value; diamonds and gold, low-value, with a 50% shipping fee.

That was the upper limit.

Anything less valuable than gold or diamonds wasn’t worth the exchange.

The Book of Dark Gods was, without a doubt, a treasure—somewhere between Infinity Stones and gold.

How could he let it slip by?