Chapter 470

"If you find him and he denies it, use the hand with the bite marks to slap him across the face, Odalys," the producer was instructed.

The producer remained silent, staring blankly at his palm—the very hand that had pressed against the child's face in the painting, now tasked with striking someone. If anyone else had said such a thing, he would have dismissed it as crazy, but since it was Odalys, he couldn't dismiss it.

"Alright. I'll slap him with this hand," the producer replied.

Odalys's lips twitched. "Make sure to slap him hard, right across the face, and get that bite mark onto his skin."

"Slap him across the face? Can this bite mark really transfer to his face?" The producer blinked, shocked.

"Yes," Odalys explained. "If you don't, that bite mark will stay with you for life. The harder you hit, the more likely the mark will transfer."

The producer's skin crawled as he examined the bite mark. If he could get rid of the mark by transferring it, he would be happy to do so—who would want to keep such a thing visible?

"Alright. I'm going to do it now," he said, trying to shake off his unease.

He hung up the phone and opened the bathroom door. His wife was sitting on the floor, staring at her bruised wrist. "What happened to me! My emotions I couldn't control them. It felt like something was" She trailed off, feeling an ominous presence.

"What's going on, honey?" she asked urgently, grabbing his arm.

The producer hesitated, then told her everything. She didn't say anything immediately, her demeanor growing increasingly defeated.

"Odalys said if we don't apologize and make things right, the child will die, right?" She seemed to struggle with the idea, but after her experience, she had no choice but to believe it.

"Exactly. So we need to find your godfather and confront him," the producer said.

His wife followed him as he grabbed the car keys. They quickly headed downstairs and drove off towards Olnyard City.

They parked in front of a quiet street and walked down a narrow alley. Ahead, Orson stood casually, sipping a drink. He was recording a voice message as they approached.

"Odalys, you were right. The producer and his wife are here, coming from Oliver's alley. Looks like you guessed right. The wife's godfather might be Oliver," Orson said into his phone. He took a sip, adjusted his sunglasses, and quietly followed them.

The producer walked quickly, his wife looking increasingly frazzled. Even in broad daylight, it felt like a ghost was following them.

"I'm scared, hubby," she whispered, clutching his arm.

The producer was also shaken. He didn't know what was real anymore, and the child's cries still rang in his ears. The thought of having children terrified him. He didn't know which children were real and which were spirits.

He silently cursed himself. To be afraid of ghosts—it was humiliating.

They turned a corner, heading toward the quadrangle courtyards. The area bustled with activity, especially among women praying for children. Some offered cash to "accumulate nierit."

"Why don't they go to Odalys? I hear her prayers are more powerful."

"Odalys! She's so amazing, I don't think I'm worthy of her blessings."

7:37 AM

"Shh, don't talk about other people here," someone hushed.

Their conversation was interrupted as Orson climbed a nearby tree, filming them discreetly.

Inside the courtyard, the wife rushed forward. "Godfather!" she called out.

Everyone froze as she rushed in, panicked. A man in a Taoist robe stepped forward, holding a wand.

"What's going on!" Oliver asked.

Before anyone could react, the producer lunged forward, slapping Oliver hard across the face. The impact sent Oliver staggering, blood trickling from his mouth.

The worshippers stepped back, fearing they might be next.

"Hubby, what are you doing!" His wife gasped.

Oliver was stunned. "You slapped me?" His voice turned cold.

In Crownridge, he was a man of status. Yet, here was this producer, slapping him.

But the producer had no time to care. He spread his palm wide, agitated. Seeing the teeth marks had disappeared, he leaned closer to examine Oliver's cheek. His eyes widened as he saw the marks clearly imprinted there.

The producer's wife also noticed. She had seen the bite marks on his hand, and now they were on Oliver's face!

Originally intending to seek Oliver's help, she wisely kept silent, fear creeping over her. She pulled the producer back.

"It's true," the producer said, excitement in his voice. "Odalys really is incredible. I didn't believe her, but it's real."

He rubbed his palm; it was clean. The bite marks were on Oliver's face.

"Oliver, your face…" someone gasped.

Oliver, feeling his loosened teeth, groaned in pain. He touched his face, his hand coming away covered in blood. He stumbled to a water basin. He saw his face, bloodied and bruised, with the clear imprint of teeth. As he reached up to rub it, the mark seemed to move, the impression opening as though teeth were biting down on his hand.

Oliver gritted his teeth and groaned, his fingers nearly caught in the sharp teeth clamping down on his hand.