ROOOOOAAAR—HSSSSS!
In the deep space above the Hundred-Herb Galaxy, the two thousand regurgitated black Script-Worms twisted and fused into a hideous, ten-thousand-mile-tall Rank 9 Late Script-Worm Avatar of the King of Despair & Plague!
Draped in tattered green funeral shrouds and crowned with a ring of weeping skulls. The colossal avatar opened its cavernous maw and inhaled greedily from the starry void of Sector 2 (The Southern 200 Galaxies).
“You think a spoonful of bitter gourd soup can erase my authority over the Southern Galaxies, Su Nuannuan?!”
The King of Despair’s booming, raspy voice echoed out of the avatar’s throat across all three million worlds.
“I am the scriptwriter of sickness and poverty! Even if you cured today’s fever, look into the hearts of the two hundred trillion mortals below you! For ten thousand years, the high-grade healing pills of the cultivation world have been hoarded by rich sects and greedy merchants!
Every poor mother and father in the Southern Galaxies lives in constant, unspoken terror that tomorrow their child will catch a spiritual illness they cannot afford to cure! As long as Medical Fear & Debt Despair exist in their hearts, my Script-Worm Avatar will regenerate infinitely!”
Down on the Grand Dispensary Plaza of the Hundred-Herb Main Planet—and across millions of humble mortal towns and farming villages in Sector 2. Trillions of ordinary parents instinctively hugged their children tighter as the avatar’s words struck their deepest, oldest worry.
