Lord of The Mysterious Realms Chapter 1160

“It would be wonderful if Jenkins were here. We could plan which city we'll live in, talk about how many children we want, and even decide if he should give Chocolate his own private lounge in our house.”

The girls talked for a long time, their spirits soaring as they excitedly mapped out their future. They spoke as if Jenkins wasn't even in the room, yet all the while, their eyes kept darting mischievously toward the man seated at the table.

Jenkins’s recitation faltered for a moment before he pressed on, his face a perfect mask of indifference. But his cat, who knew him well, recognized this impassive look for what it was: a desperate attempt to conceal his true emotions.

He told himself silently, raising the volume of his reading to drown out the redhead and the blonde. It was a futile effort. Hathaway and Briny’s voices were always pitched just a little louder than his own, ensuring every detail of their imagined future found its way, with perfect clarity, into his ears.

“It’s no use. This won’t work on me. What is a little loneliness now? This solitude is just a stepping stone to future happiness. Once I achieve my goals, what kind of future will be beyond my grasp?” Thɪs chapter is updated by novel✶fire.net

Their chatter went on for a full half-hour. When it finally ceased, the cold, damp basement materialized around him once more. Jenkins let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He kept telling himself it was all an illusion, just part of the trial, but the experience had been deeply unsettling.

He was starting to understand. The ritual to acquire "The Stranger" was designed to solidify his acceptance of that very identity. It wasn't physically dangerous, but it inflicted considerable damage on his morale and state of mind.

“I'll be okay. I'll be okay... probably.”

Jenkins couldn't fathom the purpose of such a trial, but whatever his thoughts, the scenes flickering within the flames continued to shift and change.

The book seemed capable of dredging up his most uncomfortable memories. Most of the scenes that materialized in the fire showed him undertaking some arduous task alone, juxtaposed with visions of the happier moments he could have been experiencing instead.

As he read the final page, one last image flickered to life in the flames. Jenkins took a deep breath and looked up, only to find that this wasn't a memory of the past. It was a scene that had never happened—the one he dreaded most of all.

Within the flames, the black-haired, dark-eyed Jenkins was slumped on his own family's sofa. In the foyer stood Papa Oliver, Robert and Mary, Hathaway, Briny... everyone he loved, and everyone who loved him. They were all there, staring at him with cold, hard eyes.

And there, in their midst, lay the blond Jenkins, sprawled on his back on the floor. He appeared to be dead.

Jenkins’s breath hitched, coming in ragged gasps. He fought to control its rhythm, a silent mantra running through his mind: *This isn’t real. There’s nothing to be afraid of.*

The flickering flames blurred his vision, and the cold, damp basement around him dissolved into frightening blocks of color. The shapes shifted and merged, slowly resolving into the familiar form of his living room.

Jenkins sat on the sofa, the book resting in his hands. He looked up and saw them—the crowd in the foyer, all staring at him.

“Who are you, really?”

The voices of men and women rose in a chorus of accusation, crashing over him like a tidal wave, their force staggering. Every eye was on him, and in them, he saw a coldness and hostility he had never seen before.

“I am Jenkins, but I am also Jenkins Williams.”

Unable to speak while he was reading, he could only answer in his mind. But the people in the foyer heard his silent reply:

“No! You are not Jenkins! You're an impostor, a fraud who stole another's life! You vile stranger, you usurped my poor Jenkins's identity and took everything that was his!”

Mary shrieked, her voice thick with hysteria. Jenkins had no rebuttal, and the rhythm of his reading nearly faltered.

“I may not be entirely Jenkins Williams,” he thought, “but at least a part of him is me.”

He answered silently.

Jenkins was not someone whose psychological defenses could be easily breached. Quite the opposite; he considered himself a man of clear purpose, capable of facing the worst of circumstances and finding a solution with a clear conscience.

“You're not Jenkins...”

“Who is it I truly love?”

“You're an impostor!”

“Shameless stranger!”

“You're living with someone else's face!”

“You stole young Jenkins's life!”

They flung their accusations at him, one after another, their hostility mounting with every word. Even after he had read the very last word in the book, their curses and condemnations did not cease. Finishing his task, it seemed, had not freed him from the illusion.

He closed the book, setting it on his lap. The monotonous drone of his voice, which had seemed as if it would go on forever, finally fell silent. His throat was parched. He lifted his head and looked at the crowd thronging the foyer.

“After I came to this world, it’s true that I’ve done many things using the identity of Jenkins Williams, but...”

He turned his gaze to the young women, their lovely faces twisted with fury.

“Getting to know you, falling in love with you—those were my choices, my decisions. And the person you came to like, the person you fell in love with, was me. This me. None of it has anything to do with the Jenkins of the past. The one you love is the man I am right now. Of that, there is no doubt. So what is it you're questioning? Or should I ask, is it my handsome face you love, or my radiant soul?”

He posed the question with a furrowed brow, and the girls, who had been shouting curses just moments before, fell silent. They exchanged a glance, then turned to Jenkins with smiles of relief and understanding.

The beautiful young women waved to him as if bidding farewell to a husband off to work for the day. Then, together, they turned, opened the door, and left.

The foyer was still far from empty, but it felt considerably more spacious.

Jenkins let out another sigh of relief. He knew it was wrong to have taken over Jenkins's identity, but at least where his loves were concerned, their feelings had nothing to do with the man who came before. The girls loved him, regardless of his background or status. The bonds he shared with them were forged by his own soul.

And so, when it came to his relationships, Jenkins’s conscience was clear.

The rest of the crowd was still muttering curses and accusations, though their voices had softened. Jenkins turned his attention to his colleagues from the church, to the nuns and priests who respected him. At the forefront stood Captain Bincy and Bishop Parrold.