Cthulhu Fantasy : I Am The Great Old One

"There won't be any problems."    

Putting down the prop sword in his hand, Du Kang, who had just finished rehearsing, gave Shakespeare a thumbs up.    

"The script this time is good. You will definitely be famous."    

"Depends on the situation..."    

Shakespeare smiled bitterly.    

"I exaggerated too much before I wrote it. After I wrote it, I feel a little uncertain in my heart..."    

"It's not to the extent that I don't know."    

Du Kang waved his hand repeatedly.    

When Shakespeare had just finished writing his script, Du Kang had already finished reading the entire script. After reading Shakespeare's new script, Du Kang had to admit that this kid was born to be a genius writer.    

The script itself looked like an ordinary romance drama, but it gave Du Kang a vague feeling that it was all-encompassing - elegant. Shakespeare's sentence was beautiful enough. To be vulgar, those obscure dirty jokes could make people laugh. There was the power of the family to expand the structure. There was an intense fight to support the scene. A woman could see the most touching love from it, and a man could even see his impulsive self when he was young... It could even be said that... At this moment, all the popular elements in the drama were in this movie.    

However, there were no actors.    

In the few days that Shakespeare was in seclusion preparing the script, the actors in First Theater were almost dug out by the wealthy Rose Theater. As First Theater's business had indeed been in a bad state recently, in addition to the fact that the other party was willing to spend a large sum of money, the actors who were poached chose to quit their jobs one after another. After a few days, there were only a dozen or so people left in the theater - including the cook.    

Of course, with Du Kang and the others' financial resources, it was more than enough to help Shakespeare solve the problem. Even Democritur, who had retired for a few years, could easily buy the entire First Theater. However, Du Kang didn't intend to let Shakespeare get through this crisis.    

That was because it was an act of pulling up seedlings and helping them grow.    

From Shakespeare's new script, Du Kang could tell that this kid was actually in a very critical period of bottleneck. As long as he could overcome this bottleneck, Shakespeare's future was limitless. But all of this required Shakespeare to get through by himself.    

Endure, comprehend... After that, he would completely turn this experience into a part of himself, and then he would merge his brand new self into his work. This was a process that every creator would experience - the authors that Du Kang knew basically all followed this path. Of course, as an ordinary person, Shakespeare definitely couldn't rely on killing demons to obtain materials like Dante. He would not be able to swing his iron staff and hit the pirates like Wu Cheng'en did. However, it would be a good experience for him to resist a little.    

When Shakespeare finished his training, the book Du Kang wanted would probably be written.    

He did not forget what he came here for.    

"Write it well."    

Recalling the octopus head that had been reduced to a fat kid, Du Kang couldn't help but pat Shakespeare's shoulder.    

"You will be red."    

"That... I have a question."    

Shakespeare looked at Du Kang in confusion.    

"You... Why do you want me to write the book you want? There are a lot of writers in London. Why did you choose me?"    

"Ah, because..."    

Du Kang was speechless.    

"Because your work is very good."    

After a moment of silence, Du Kang forced a smile.    

"Come on, I'm looking forward to your new work."    

"Thank you."    

Shakespeare nodded.    

"Thank you very much."    

————————    

Rose Theater, backstage.    

The scriptwriter stared blankly at the stack of torn pieces of paper on the table.    

Yes, he had already entered the Oxford Hidden Cultivators Sect and had learned some mysterious magic. He had even been assigned to be in charge of a single subject. If it had been in the past, this situation would have been the result of his dream.    

However, he had never thought that this would happen.    

"Phew..."    

Taking a deep breath, the man picked up his pen again and started writing on the brand new piece of paper while trembling.    

But in just a moment, he tore the first line into pieces.    

"F * ck..."    

The man collapsed onto the chair powerlessly.    

In fact, he did not tell the truth. He did not rush three scripts in a row. He had not been able to write anything for three whole days. He only used magic to hide his panic. Even when he made a promise, his heart was trembling. His anxiety made him go to his old classmate to play chess. However, when faced with his good friend who had sent him to the Hidden Cultivators Sect, he couldn't say anything.    

"You must complete your research independently. This is also a test for you."    

He still remembered what the senior who dressed like an ancient Magus said to him.    

But he could no longer write anything.    

There were clearly all kinds of scenes spinning in his mind, and he could easily write out those template characters, but he could not write even a single paragraph. His mind was already stiff, and his brain had also stopped working. Everything was rapidly moving away, and he just wanted to put his pen in. It went into his throat.    

He really wanted to say to someone, save me.    

But who could save him?    

"Slap."    

With a snap of his fingers, the torn pieces of paper floated silently in the air.    

The pieces of paper flew in the air like heavy snow.    

The man lowered his arm and allowed the pieces of paper to fall on his body.    

It was like a corpse waiting to be buried.    

He already knew magic, but he still could not save himself.    

What right did he have to seek help from others?    

The seniors of the Hidden Cultivators Sect in Oxford were cruel to their enemies, but they were also cruel to their own people. If he couldn't finish the topic, he would die without any value. Or rather, it was a good thing to die.    

He didn't want to die.    

He wanted to live.    

"Write."    

Resisting the disgust that came from his body, the man picked up the pen again.    

"Write..."    

A brand new piece of paper flew over from afar and landed in front of him.    

"Write!"    

Accompanied by a hoarse wail, the pen dipped in ink pierced through the table.    

It also pierced through the palm of his hand that was pressing on the piece of paper.    

It could no longer be written.    

The man had to admit that he had completely lost the ability to write.    

If he couldn't complete the project independently, the ancient Magi of the Hidden Cultivators Sect wouldn't let him go.    

Fresh blood dripped from his palm, dyeing the piece of paper red and spreading on the table. However, the man didn't feel any pain, only a trace of loss.    

"What should I do?"    

Looking at the bloody palm, the man smiled bitterly.    

"What can I do?"    

Seemingly feeling the man's confusion, even the blood on the table turned two corners. It looked like two question marks.    

"What the f * ck can I do!"    

The man shouted in despair.    

Fresh blood spurted out from his tight palm, directly shooting out a trail of blood.    

Looking at the question marks and exclamation marks formed by blood on the table, the man revealed a crazy smile.    

"You're fucking laughing at me too! Right!"    

He raised his right hand, and the sharp edge gathered.    

"Even you are laughing at me..."    

"No, no, no, I really don't mean to laugh at you."    

An inexplicable voice sounded in the man's mind.    

It was as loud as a bell.    

"That... Carwen is a common phenomenon for authors. There's no need to be so irritable."    

The voice paused for a moment.    

"So your purpose of communicating with me... is to obtain inspiration?"