Chapter 161: Burning Books
George exuded a chilling murderous intent, his eyes scanning the succubus like an eagle, searching for the best way to cut into flesh. His massive sword rested on his shoulder, his knees bent and filled with power, the whole person resembling a spring compressed to its limit.
The moment he released it, explosive energy would surge into the sword and strike at the succubus.
Jima’s heart tightened, and she dropped the book, saying, “George, it’s me, I am Jima.”
He hesitated for a moment, but his hands remained tightly gripping the huge sword.
“I am your wife.” Jima spread her empty hands, “I mean no harm.”
George seemed to be seeing Jima anew, staring intently at her face, saying, “Thief… no, you are Jima?”
I knew it; his state was off, and he was probably on the verge of going berserk… It was indeed not as easy to return to diamond as he had claimed.
Jima said, “You scared me. Can you lower the sword a bit?”
George’s sword trembled: “Jima, you shouldn’t have looked at my things without permission.”
“It’s my fault; I broke the law. I accept my punishment, do as you wish,” Jima said, “but you can’t kill me, right?”
“Kill?” George shook his head, as if gradually waking from a nightmare, “How could I think of killing you? Right, I won’t hurt you.”
As he spoke, George slowly lowered the sword.
The tense atmosphere in the room eased as the sword descended.
Jima gradually sighed in relief. According to Earth, the hometown of the Demon King, this was the work of a heart demon. George’s yearning for maternal love had now become his weakness.
For ordinary people, this psychological flaw might simply cause some depression, just a few personality defects. But for extraordinary beings, it was quite deadly; they could kill their entire family in a fit of rage, then wake up regretting it and go directly out of control.
This was practically a classic case of extraordinary beings losing control.
Jima surmised that George was aware that collecting these things was bad for him, yet he couldn’t abandon them, thus he peeped secretly. Her spying was akin to igniting a landmine under George in the worst possible way.
As the gleaming sword lowered and was about to touch the ground, a goat-headed figure suddenly appeared from the hole behind George; it was the horned boy, holding a sword and seemingly unable to see George standing inside due to the dust.
Jima’s heart sank. How did that troublesome brat appear at such a critical moment?
She raised her hand, wanting to directly pull him into a dream.
But it was too late.
The horned boy shouted:
“Who dares to trespass in the room of the Dragon Slayer George? Put down your weapons and surrender, or face death without mercy!”
George’s eyes turned unfamiliar again; he raised his sword, his foot springing off the ground as he dashed to Jima in the blink of an eye.
Jima shouted at lightning speed, “We agreed to get married and have children, remember?”
George jolted, letting go of the sword hilt and crashing into Jima.
Jima felt like she had been struck by a steel bear; her arm throbbed, and she flew backward, instinctively grabbing the cold armor, which was pressing her to the ground.
This was it; she was about to be seriously injured.
Jima tensed her back muscles, ready to use her puppet substitute.
But George firmly grasped her shoulders and spun violently in mid-air. Jima heard the sound of armor scraping against the ground and a thud as George’s helmet collided with the door.
Just like last time in the dream palace, he had put himself in harm’s way to protect her.
In George’s embrace, Jima suffered no harm but was startled, her chest heaving.
A hesitant male voice came from the helmet: “Jima, are you okay?”
Jima gently reassured him, “I’m fine, everything is fine, no one is hurt.”
At this moment, the horned boy entered, trembling while holding the sword.
Perhaps, like Lianxi, he felt his master needed help.
Jima thought this but felt angry at the sight of the boy and wanted to kick him. However, he was George’s attendant, making it inconvenient for her to do so.
She shouted, “What are you staring at? Get lost, you troublemaker!”
The horned boy hesitated.
George said, “You should step outside for a moment.”
The horned boy nodded and immediately left.
George released his grip, and Jima stood up from his embrace, watching him take off the cold helmet, revealing his confused yet handsome face.
He did not rise but leaned against the wall sitting down.
“I’m sorry, I just…” George said, “I lost control.”
“Don’t say that.” Jima worried he would blame himself too much, “It’s just a loss of control. Every extraordinary person has lost control, even I have. You hold yourself to such high standards, always wanting to recover your strength quickly and regain your former glory; leaving some hidden dangers is normal.”
“Thank you for your comfort.” George rarely showed a tired expression.
Jima sat next to the genius, looking at his face and inexplicably recalling memories of Demon King Jima back on Earth, when he was still human, working late into the night at his rental, his face in the mirror looking equally weary.
It seemed geniuses were not omnipotent.
George continued, “I violated my oath—”
“Don’t say that.” Jima interrupted, extending her hand to smooth the furrowed lines on his forehead, “And don’t frown so tightly.”
“Jima, I didn’t realize how fragile I was.”
“Everyone has moments of breaking down, George.” Jima wanted to hug George, but due to the armor’s coldness, she gently cradled his head instead, “If you’re tired, close your eyes and rest; no matter when, you still have me here.”
George slightly closed his eyes, leaning against Jima’s soft chest: “Hmm.”
At this moment, this paladin who would not retreat one step before devils or evil was like a child in Jima’s arms, utterly still.
From the shattered hole, Eve Frostleaf appeared. She wasn’t wearing a helmet, her long silver hair tied with a sky-blue ribbon swayed with the wind, her green eyes taking in the scene.
Jima smiled at her.
Eve Frostleaf saw George leaning against Jima’s chest, turned her head, and left silently, like a gust of wind.
A few minutes later.
George opened his eyes, saying, “I feel much better.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“That’s good.” Jima stood up and patted her chest.
George leaned his head against her chest and almost toppled over.
“You scared me to death! If it weren’t for my puppet substitute technique, I would have run off long ago,” Jima said. “By the way, where did you find all these books?”
George replied, “From many places; I’ve been searching for clues about my birth mother.”
“I think it’s necessary to do some divination on these books.” Jima walked over to the suitcase, looking at letters written by the lonely mother to her future child: “Perhaps they’re a medium for a curse; there have been many seeking to harm you.”
“I was worried about some things before, so I didn’t look for you.”
Jima started dumping the books out of the suitcase, deliberately doing it roughly while quietly observing George, asking:
“Do you feel heartbroken?”
“A bit,” George said, “Whenever I feel lonely, I can’t help but look at these books.”
“When you’re lonely, you can come to me or to Jenna.” Jima said, “Talking to Frostleaf about your feelings is also good.”
“Not that kind of loneliness.”
“That’s better than looking at these books from unknown origins.”
Jima piled the books together; there weren’t many, mostly written on expensive parchment, many of which had turned dark, with the characters smudged beyond recognition.
Just thinking about George sitting at the desk last night, struggling to decipher the words on them.
Jima felt a chill, like the scene in a movie called “The Shining” on Earth, where the female lead finds a manuscript written by her husband, the writer, filled with the same sentence over and over again.
But she maintained her composure and never let a fearful expression show.
She circled around with grains of wheat, lit enchanted candles, then sprinkled a small handful of salt directly onto the flame.
The fire flared, the candle extinguished, leaving only a wisp of white smoke rising slowly.
She squinted her eyes, watching the white smoke.
George asked, “Any results?”
“None,” Jima replied, “It’s too old; I can’t identify who wrote the words.”
“Are they written by the same person?”
“Don’t know,” Jima said, “You must have discerned the handwriting.”
“From the handwriting alone, they all look like they were written by the same person.”
“Then you should be careful.” Jima said, “These books are nothing special in themselves, just ordinary books, but that’s where their insidiousness lies.”
“Explain.”
“Their origins have been forged.”
“Forged?”
“I divined the recent positions of the books,” Jima said, “It showed they should be in places like the bookcase, church library, etc. It seems they have been hidden for nearly twenty years until some young person with maternal fixation collected them.”
“Jima.” George elongated the end of her name to express his dissatisfaction.
“Maternal fixation, maternal fixation, maternal fixation.”
George extended his hand, encased in iron gauntlets, and tapped Jima on the head.
“Ouch, domestic violence,” Jima said, hugging her head, “Back to the point, I discovered traces of forgery. To put it simply, I suspect someone stuffed them into someone else’s bookcase and forged their origins, so ordinary diviners wouldn’t be able to discern any issues.”
Jima continued, “But unfortunately, they ran into a master like me.”
“Thanks.”
“If thanks were useful, then what do we need gold coins for?” Jima said, “You should gratefully say to me: ‘Mama, thank you. There’s no one as good as Mama in the world.'”
George’s hand twitched, he took a deep breath, controlling his fist.
Jima kicked the books on the ground: “Let’s burn all these books. If you have other books, bring them here to burn as well.”
George behind her remained silent, in contemplation.
Silence was also a form of response.
Jima turned back to look at George, whose azure eyes were staring blankly at the book, filled with reluctance.
Jima waved her hand in front of him.
George said, “I can overcome this, just like I overcame the discomfort of fighting in the blazing sun before.”
“George, you’re trying to find justifications to convince yourself.”
“Jima! Do you know how scared I was earlier? You felt like a stranger.” The succubus’s tear ducts were likely overly sensitive; Jima’s eyes turned red, her tone bearing a hint of sobbing: “You pointed a sword at me.”
George immediately panicked and was about to comfort Jima when she turned away, saying, “Wait a moment, let’s continue talking.”
Jima wiped her tears with her sleeve, took a few deep breaths, and continued discussing with George, trying hard to reason with him.
Ten minutes later, George piled all the books together, set them ablaze, and burned them clean.
