246-250

Chapter 246: Bugs 

As Lu Xun once said, "The joys and sorrows of human beings are not interconnected." 

He was right. At this moment, Constantine just wanted to get some decent sleep. He had no desire to deal with his sudden visitor, nor did he care why this person had come to see him. After all, generally speaking, people who sought him out were either looking for him to pay debts, seeking revenge, or wanting him to do some dirty work. 

Friends visiting? Don't be ridiculous. His so-called "friends" would never bring him good news. On that point, Constantine was always exceptionally clear-headed. 

"He looked dreadful, Constantine. He came all this way, begging to see you." 

"Jesus... Is he still here?" 

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Constantine, that's too rude." The old landlady sighed wearily. "I think he's probably gone. Didn't say goodbye, didn't say thank you, and he still owes me seventeen and a half pounds — I sent a package to America for him at the post office." 

Constantine opened his mouth, silently cursing the scoundrel, then pulled seventeen and a half pounds from his pocket. He might have a terrible personality, but he wasn't poor. Or rather, precisely because he was a moral vacuum, he usually had some spare cash on hand — if he didn't squander it. The people he owed money to weren't usually normal, or even human, and what he owed often wasn't money. When it came to a small sum like this, Constantine was quite reasonable. 

"As if dealing with these red bugs isn't keeping me busy enough," the landlady grumbled, clearly annoyed. She was about to keep nagging, but Constantine looked utterly uninterested, walking straight upstairs. Clearly, anything she said to him at this moment would be pointless, like "preaching to the choir." So, she went back to the kitchen to continue torturing her cabbage. 

"Bugs?" Constantine thought as he ascended the stairs. "No wonder there are so many pest control vans outside." 

He put the key in the lock, and only then did he have to think about the friend who had visited – Gary Lester, a pure junkie, with basically no redeeming qualities, and like himself, a self-taught magician who didn't care about black magic or normal magic; he used whatever was available. 

"What the hell did that jerk want from me? Just to send a package?" 

He wondered, puzzled, and casually opened the door, stepping into his room. 

The living room light was still on, but no one was there; it seemed Lester wasn't around. The doors and windows were shut tight, and the heating made the room warm and cozy, instantly dispelling the chill of the rainy day, making it quite comfortable. 

The room could probably be called clean and bright, and there wasn't much dust. Mrs. M had a sharp tongue but a soft heart; for the past few months, she had been coming upstairs to clean, with today being the only exception — because Lester had been holed up in his apartment today. 

He sighed in relief. It was good that the guy had left; at least it meant less trouble. He put his suitcase aside, hung his wet trench coat, opened the window for ventilation, and plopped onto the sofa. 

"Damn it, whenever I'm away, I miss home, but every time I come back, it's uncomfortable. Lester's a real bastard." 

Scattered furniture, open books, and waste paper were strewn everywhere. The stale smell of mold and a pungent, sour odor wafted from the kitchen, and even the rain outside smelled of diesel. Various strong smells seemed to be welcoming him home. 

This was definitely Lester's doing, and he absolutely hated it. 

Constantine, lighting a 'Skar' brand cigarette, squirmed uncomfortably on the sofa. Lester must have been sitting on it for ages because it no longer conformed to his body shape, and the rough fabric chafed his skin. 

"Damn it, I want to go out again." 

He casually picked up an expired copy of The Sun newspaper nearby and flipped to page three. The sparsely dressed woman on it helped him calm his mind. 

But he couldn't. His mind couldn't help but wander back to Gary Lester. Why on Earth did that guy come all this way to find him? According to Mrs. M, he seemed to be in a strange state. 

Don't tell me some damn demon is looking for me again? 

At that moment, his gaze fixed on the table beneath the tabloid. There was a syringe on it, with only a small portion of the liquid inside injected. 

"That absolute scumbag..." Constantine's anger flared. Although he religiously smoked thirty Skar cigarettes a day for years, he didn't consider himself an addict. He hated drugs, and naturally, he hated his friends doing them. 

Even if this stuff wasn't meth, it was definitely a drug. 

He picked up the syringe. Through the clear liquid, he could see small black limbs and transparent wings — fragmented pieces of flies. 

Constantine instantly got goosebumps. "Goddammit, Jesus Christ! Bugs? That bastard's so high he's lost his mind." 

But since the syringe was still there, it meant the person hadn't left. 

He sprang up from the sofa, ran into the kitchen to find Lester, but the overwhelming stench that greeted him made his stomach churn again. 

Dirty cups, plates, and cutlery, milk bottles floating in the sink, the water surface already covered in a layer of iridescent mold mixed with grease, looking as if it had been there for months. 

"Damn it, that guy was only here for half a day, half a day!" 

Constantine gritted his teeth, watching a few "little elves" (cockroaches) scurrying across the kitchen floor. Undoubtedly, Lester and nature's recycling system had given him a lesson. 

At that moment, he couldn't help but wish the guy had just hidden in the fridge and frozen himself to death. 

Then he was sickened by the black tide that scattered from the refrigerator — a swarm of lively little creatures. 

"Ugh!" 

Damn it, help! I have trypophobia! 

After throwing up, Constantine had no desire to stay in the kitchen. There was nothing but bugs in the refrigerator, so he ran to the bathroom, where strange noises were coming from. 

"That guy isn't going to overdose in the bathtub, is he?" He forced himself to open the bathroom door, shouting, "Get out! Whatever you are! Get out!" 

At that moment, a thin, balding man came into his view. 

At this moment, Constantine wished the guy had just died. 

Dense swarms of moths, mosquitoes, cockroaches, flies — all sorts of flying insects buzzed around him, their sound loud enough to penetrate the door. These creatures covered his entire body and the whole bathroom, and this unwelcome guest was sitting in the bathtub, scratching himself all over, crying out to Constantine at the door. 

"John, is that you? Friend, you have to help me, you have to help me! I feel terrible, my addiction's acting up again!" 

"I feel so itchy, so uncomfortable—" 

"Like there are bugs crawling on me!" 

Chapter 247: Your Reputation Precedes You, From London to Gotham 

"Feels like bugs are crawling on me?" 

Bloody hell, it's not a "feeling," there actually are bugs crawling on him! 

Bang! 

In that second, the bathroom door slammed shut with a bang, fast and hard. Facing the horrifying scene in the bathroom, Constantine didn't look back; he slammed the door and turned away, as if making a firm decision. 

"Jesus Christ Almighty, has Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, descended upon Earth...?" 

"John, don't leave me!" 

Amidst the wails coming from the bathroom, Constantine looked dazed, his eyes vacant. That sight had really caused him significant psychological trauma. A second ago, he felt like Beni from The Mummy, surrounded by countless disgusting bugs, and almost gnawed to death as they tried to burrow under his skin. 

After several minutes of dazed silence, the wails from the bathroom still hadn't stopped. Lester's soul-wrenching screams finally brought Constantine back to what little sanity he had left. He took a breath, then finally put on his trench coat and walked out. 

He hurried through the streets, past walls covered in graffiti, and headed towards the corner store. At that moment, a passerby brushed past him, marveling at a mural of mountains and a sunset on the wall. 

"The artistry here is, like, three or four stories high." 

Asian, American accent, new to London, dressed quite well. Constantine thought that ordinarily, this kind of easy mark might be worth shaking down for some cash. 

But not now. There was more important business to handle. 

Constantine's gaze quickly swept over the man, then he quickened his steps and pushed open the door to the small store. 

Bang! 

"Hey, Ali, I need to buy some stuff!" 

"Hey! Watch where you're going!" 

The store wasn't very big. A bald-headed hippie was looking for items on a shelf behind the door and had just been hit on the shoulder by it. He immediately looked at the frantic blond man who had burst in, his face full of anger. As a free-spirited, anti-establishment hippie who advocated for indulging desires, how could he tolerate such disrespect? 

"Get lost, punk." 

Constantine didn't even glance at him, just muttered a curse in return and went straight to the counter. Meanwhile, another bald hippie reached out and pulled his companion back. "Forget it, Kenny, let it go... That's Constantine." 

His reputation preceded him, for better or worse, and Constantine's notoriety in this area wasn't just common knowledge; it was practically legendary. Underneath it all, everyone knew there was a sharp-dressed hoodlum on this street who could use all sorts of evil, dirty black magic to make people suffer immensely. 

"Ali, give me ten packs of Skar, and six cans of bug spray — no, make that twelve cans..." 

"No problem, John." 

The owner shrugged, turning to fetch the items from the shelf. At the same time, Constantine pulled out his phone and started dialing, completely ignoring the hippie's provocative glare as he left. 

Beep—beep— 

After one or two brief rings, a deep, steady middle-aged male voice came from the phone. He asked succinctly: 

"Hello, who is this?" 

"Chas?" Constantine said. "It's John. Don't ask too many questions. Get to my apartment, as soon as possible — remember to bring some medicine. A friend's sick, he's here in my apartment." 

There was a moment of silence on the other end. 

"Don't tell me you're busy right now. Just do it, Chas." 

"Alright." 

Beep——beep—— 

The call was hung up directly, but Constantine felt relieved. He was used to Chas's terse demeanor. This taciturn old friend was always reliable; if he promised something, there was no need to worry about him breaking it. 

But when Constantine returned to his apartment, Mrs. M was waiting for him downstairs again. 

"Constantine," she whispered, "Someone came looking for you. He seemed to be Asian, in his twenties, looked young and well-dressed. I let him wait for you in your room." 

Asian? 

Constantine immediately recalled the Asian man he'd brushed past earlier by the graffiti wall. He hadn't expected the person to be looking for him. 

But strangely, he didn't remember ever seeing this person before, meaning the two of them shouldn't have had any prior interaction. So why would he be looking for him? 

A sense of caution rose in Constantine's mind. 

Thinking of Lester still in the bathroom, Constantine immediately ran towards his room. He just hoped that the poor guy and this unexpected guest hadn't had some bizarre chemical reaction. 

"Slow down! Oh my..." The old woman sighed. "So undignified. That boy really needs to learn some manners..." 

When Constantine pushed open the door, what greeted him was still the ordinary living room. Mrs. M's visitor was nowhere to be seen. 

"Where is he?" 

Constantine instinctively looked towards the other rooms, but heard no movement. It was then he realized that Lester's hysterical wails from the bathroom seemed to have stopped. 

This wasn't normal. 

An ominous feeling immediately welled up inside him. He casually lit a cigarette, tiptoed to the bathroom door, and suddenly yanked it open. 

Whoosh— 

However, upon opening the door, the sight before him completely caught Constantine off guard. 

"Oh, this place really looks awful." 

Standing in the bathroom was the same Asian man he'd encountered on the street. In his hand, he held a green can of insect repellent, spraying it around the room, and he was also holding a clover. 

The bathroom window was wide open. At this moment, a strong gust of wind swept the mist from the insect repellent, carrying the densely packed dead insects out of the window. 

"Good thing Dave's insect repellent works well and is harmless to humans. Otherwise, I would've had to try Pokémon's bug spray... By the way, how are you feeling?" 

Lester sat in the bathtub, saying nothing. He stared blankly as the bugs on him were swept away, a look of post-trauma relief on his face. But his body remained curled up, not relaxed, until he saw Constantine open the door, and a glimmer of light finally appeared in his eyes. 

"Alright, sir." Constantine casually tossed the newly bought insect repellent into a corner of the room and patted the man. "I appreciate you helping de-bug my home, but now my friend and I have some private matters to discuss. I'm afraid you'll have to leave." 

"Leave?" The man turned to look at Constantine. "You're John Constantine, aren't you? Your reputation precedes you, from London to Gotham, everyone knows your name, and that's precisely why I'm here." 

Constantine impatiently scratched his head. Whether this guy was here for revenge or to hire him for some dirty work, he was going to be trouble either way. 

I need to get rid of him, Constantine thought. 

However, the man's next sentence made him abandon that idea. 

Chapter 248: Deposit? What Deposit? 

"I know you're in a hurry, but hold on a sec," the man who had intruded into Constantine's home, Cody, continued. "Just this morning, I personally watched a fat guy who'd eaten half a restaurant starve to death, turning into skin and bones, and he had a lot of flies buzzing around him." 

Constantine, who had initially reached out to usher his unwelcome guest out, now paused. He extracted several key pieces of information from Cody's statement. 

First, Lester's condition was spreading to the streets. 

Second, this couldn't be some kind of contagious disease. Any normal person could figure out with their toes that "a person eating until they starved to death" and "a fat person turning into skin and bones in minutes" absolutely defied science. This was a supernatural event. 

Third, this person was a witness to the incident, and he was smart enough to know to find a professional in the supernatural field to solve the problem. 

Fourth: This involved gluttony and flies... which sparked an even worse thought in his mind. 

"...Alright," Constantine took a deep drag from his cigarette. "No matter where you heard about me, mate, but since this hasn't spread to you yet, I really don't recommend getting involved. My advice is to go home now, get in bed, have a good sleep, and forget everything you saw today." 

"Really?" Cody countered. "Even though I'm not in the supernatural circuit, knowledge of mythology isn't hard to find. I looked up some related information. Baal, the chief of the seventy-two demons in Canaanite mythology, also happens to be Beelzebub, Satan's lieutenant and the Lord of the Flies and Plagues in the Judeo-Christian mythological system, and he corresponds to the sin of gluttony." 

Constantine's frown deepened. He was a seasoned freelance magician, and while he was a freelancer, the occult books he'd read were varied and all-encompassing. The moment Cody revealed that information, the first entity that came to his mind was indeed this Prince of Hell, the Lord of Plagues, the embodiment of the Seven Deadly Sins. 

But that was impossible. 

"Kid," he smiled at Cody, "you might have a bit of cleverness and have read some superficial occult books, but you know nothing about Beelzebub, do you? You don't know how terrifying his power is, nor how high his authority is in Hell. If he had truly come to the human world, you wouldn't have walked out of that restaurant alive, and I wouldn't have received absolutely no news." 

"Can you imagine an elephant trying to quietly squeeze into a room through a two-meter-high door? What about a T-Rex? What about Godzilla? The human world is that room. A demon of Beelzebub's stature, merely projecting a portion of his power, would be enough to shake the entire human realm." 

Here, Constantine spoke of "projecting power" because he still had some things unsaid: 

The supreme being in heaven doesn't like angels or demons using divine power to move mountains and stir up trouble in the human world. In the rules he set, angels or demons who want to enter the human world must weaken their power and appear in human form. 

If Beelzebub wanted to stroll around the human world in his true form, he would have to give up a significant portion of his power. 

This was absolutely unacceptable to him, and most importantly, there was no need for it. A few, or even a few hundred human souls, weren't worth such a great effort and investment of power for him. 

Cody listened to Constantine's answer and then asked, "But if it's not Beelzebub, then who could it be?" 

That was a good question. 

Constantine instinctively turned to look at Lester. While the two of them were talking, his old friend had already dried himself off and changed clothes. Although his shower might not have been thorough, at this moment, understanding the situation was most important. 

"In any case," Cody replied, "you can consider this a commission. You help me find out the ins and outs of this matter, and I'll give you twenty thousand US dollars – how does that sound?" 

"Deal." 

The words had barely left Cody's mouth when Constantine's attitude immediately changed. Shamelessly, he instantly accepted the commission. 

"We have an understanding," he stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and lit another. "While I'm Constantine, Master of the Dark Arts, dealing with evil spirits is always risky. You'll need to pay a deposit first." 

"How about ten thousand US dollars?" Cody shrugged. "Give me an account, and I'll transfer it directly." 

At this moment, he was secretly pleased. Before, it would have taken a lot of effort to reach an agreement with this scumbag magician, but now, the feeling of solving problems by "氪金" (spending money) was incredibly convenient. 

I always thought Bruce Wayne was happy enough, he thought, I was wrong. Bruce Wayne's happiness is beyond my imagination. 

After Cody transferred the money, Constantine spoke again. 

"One more thing: I can't fully guarantee your personal safety. So, once you're involved in this, your life and death are left to fate. If you want to back out, now's your chance." 

"What about the deposit?" 

"What deposit?" 

"...Damn it, Constantine—I knew this much already. Anything else?" 

"Nothing else, mate—welcome to London, welcome to the mad supernatural world." 

Constantine smiled, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. Even without Cody's commission, he had planned to investigate Lester's situation thoroughly. He just hadn't expected to rake in a big sum of money on the side. 

I'm so lucky. 

A smile also appeared on Cody's face. For him, asset points were paramount, and US dollars were one means of acquiring them. If he were in Gotham, that twenty thousand dollar offer wouldn't have been enough to enlist any super-villain's help – the name "Calamity" was already infamous there. 

I'm so lucky. 

Just as the two, each with their own ulterior motives, exchanged smiles, there was a sudden knock at the door. 

Thump-thump-thump! 

"Hold on, it's probably my friend." 

Constantine, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, told Cody and then walked out to open the door. A sturdy middle-aged man in a jacket, with a plain face, walked in from outside. His attire was quite ordinary, and he wouldn't stand out in a crowd. Few would have guessed that this unremarkable middle-aged driver was one of Constantine's longest-surviving old friends. 

"Friend, how have you been?" Constantine embraced him. "Did you bring the dust?" 

"I did," the middle-aged man replied gruffly. "Even though I don't like doing it." 

Constantine looked at Lester, who was sitting on the sofa, dazed and muttering to himself, then took another deep drag from his cigarette. 

"Old friend, since when did you have so many reservations? Let him get his fix, then we can question him properly." 

Chapter 249: The Origin of Disaster 

"Let me introduce you," Constantine said to Cody, patting the middle-aged man on the back. "This is one of my old friends—in fact, I'd say he's my best friend, Chas." 

The man extended his hand and shook Cody's. "Hello." 

"And this is... uh, what was your name again?" 

It was only then that Constantine realized he knew nothing about the newcomer. 

"Cody, a... mysticism enthusiast, currently unemployed. You can call me Old Ma." 

Constantine raised an eyebrow. An unemployed American English speaker, yet he could be so generous? 

Something was off about this man, but he was the client, and the deposit had already cleared, so Constantine decided not to press for now. If this new teammate turned out to be trouble, he could always sell him out to save himself. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, He forced me, He forced me..." 

Lester, still in a state of panic on the sofa, kept repeating these phrases. His mental state was quite bad, and Constantine couldn't get anything coherent out of him. 

Chas looked at the mess on the sofa and asked, "Where the hell did you find this guy?" 

"In a bathtub, believe it or not?" Constantine sneered. "I thought it was a giant spider crawling out of the pipes." 

"Let me reintroduce him. Gary Lester. He used to be a friend of mine, but then we had a little incident in Jarrow, England—and we went our separate ways." 

Constantine motioned for Chas to do what he needed to do, then lit another cigarette. "The last I heard of him, he was in Morocco, supposedly writing some book. Just typical melodramatic stuff—drugs, booze, boys, strange fates, that sort of thing. He really messed himself up, but at least he didn't self-harm, otherwise he'd be scarred for life." 

"Didn't you used to be in a band too?" Chas casually retorted. "All that rock, rebellion, individuality..." 

"I wasn't looking for an excuse to indulge and destroy myself." 

At this point, Cody watched Chas rummage through the items he'd brought, eventually drawing something into a syringe. He immediately understood what Constantine meant by "get a good fix." He shook his head, then patted Chas on the shoulder. 

"Forget it, flush that stuff down the toilet. I'll help him calm down." 

"Hey, hey!" Constantine, who had been flipping through the Sun newspaper nearby, spoke up. "This guy's already pitiful enough. We need to get some information out of him, and he needs to relax first. It's not some truth serum—wait, are you Singaporean?" 

"I'm Chinese," Cody said. "You should know our views on this kind of thing." 

"Alright, alright, my friend, you need to understand something: when in Rome, do as the Romans do. This is London, England. You can't control every junkie. And you paid me to find out the truth, remember? Sometimes, for more important things, we have to make a small sacrifice." 

At that moment, Lester on the sofa saw the syringe in Chas's hand and immediately pleaded, like a person lost in the desert spotting water. 

"Give me that, Constantine, please, don't torment me anymore! Give it to me!" 

"You see? Even if you stop him today, he'll just go buy it himself in a few days." 

"That's his business," Cody said, pulling two candies from his pocket and removing his detachable hood from his jacket. "But I won't condone injecting him. I'll try a different approach." 

Constantine watched as he tossed the two candies into Lester's mouth. Strangely, in the next second, Lester's shriveled body and sunken, emaciated areas suddenly filled out. The heavy dark circles under his eyes, the bloodshot redness, the sickly pallor of his cheeks, the needle marks on his arms, and even the bite marks all rapidly disappeared. 

Cody then placed the hood on Lester's head. Similarly, in the next moment, Lester's eyes went from bewildered and terrified to calm and rational. 

Cody could have chosen to restore him with ten thousand dollars, which would have had the same effect, but he didn't want to—it would have been a pure waste. This junkie was already deeply ill; not only did his body have a physiological addiction, but his mind was completely dependent on the stuff. His chances of relapse were one hundred percent. 

Chas, seeing Lester's condition, let out a long sigh of relief. He picked up the bag of things and turned to walk into the bathroom. 

Cody then turned to the deeply thoughtful Constantine and gestured: "This guy's calmed down. It's your turn to ask." 

So Constantine went to Lester. At that moment, his mind was racing with what had just happened. This new client didn't seem to be a simple "mysticism enthusiast." Regular enthusiasts didn't have unheard-of candies like that, and a hat that could instantly restore someone's sanity was even more astonishing. 

He had been in the same room with him for so long and hadn't even realized the hat was a magical item. It wasn't like any type of magic he knew. 

"Gus," he began, using his special term of endearment for Lester. "I was going to use some hypnosis, but you seem very calm now. I guess I don't need to tie you up, do I?" 

"No need, Constantine." Lester was completely calm now, stretching out on the sofa. At this moment, although he still wanted to take drugs, he could temporarily control the urge because he knew there was more important business to attend to. 

"It happened when I was in Tangier, Morocco. That's what led to me becoming like this..." 

Tangier was hot, incredibly hot. 

Lester, wearing sunglasses, walked through the streets of the old city, his short-sleeved shirt largely soaked with sweat. Hot air rushed into his throat, almost suffocating him, and the air was warped and shimmering from the sun. 

Yet, the people here all wore headscarves and long robes. The city's merchants were long accustomed to this weather, bustlingly hawking their wares along the street. Beggars with broken legs huddled in the cool shadows of alleyways, weakly begging for food. Children wearing hats ran around the streets, pulling at passersby, asking if they wanted to buy boys or girls. 

Twenty dirhams each, four pounds, five US dollars, forty Chinese yuan. 

A very cheap price. 

But Lester ignored the surrounding crowds. At that moment, he felt terrible; his addiction was acting up again. 

He wanted to get some drugs in the city, but he was penniless. 

Chapter 250: Namos 

The Old City, what a place. It's like a maze, you could wander for hours, and everyone's got something to hawk. 

Lester had been around for a while, so he knew this spot was like a super-low-budget Night City – anything goes, no matter how wild. But even he never expected to run into that kid here. 

"Safie! No work, no food!" 

A robed man yelled, shoving the boy out of a sweatshop door before disappearing back inside without a second glance. Lester walked over and saw it was a Black boy, scrawny, disoriented, and mute. He had no tongue, just making these guttural, whimpering sounds. 

He helped the convulsing boy up and noticed strange, intricate patterns carved all over his upper body – from his forehead to his arms and down to his belly. They were grotesque yet vibrant, ancient yet profound. Lester, like Constantine, was a self-taught occultist, and the moment he saw the boy, he felt something odd stir within him. 

"He's not Arab, maybe Sudanese, I guess – a slave, anyway." 

Lester took a cigarette from Constantine, lit it, and took a long drag. "I looked into his eyes, and I felt something unusual, just like that time in Newcastle." 

At the mention of "Newcastle," Constantine's face darkened, but Lester didn't notice. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, still recalling that day. 

"There was something inside him... something I couldn't resist. So, I took him home." 

In the dim room, Lester drew the curtains and turned off the lights, blocking out all sources of light. At that moment, an uncontrollable craving surged within him – he was caught in a dark frenzy, utterly helpless against it. 

He carried the boy to the bed, lit a candle, and retrieved a long-necked bottle. In the gloom, a rainbow shimmer flashed across the bottle's glass – it was a magic bottle. 

Next, Lester began to chant a hymn, commencing an exorcism. As the song started, a terrifying, dense buzzing emanated from the boy's body, which began to convulse violently. He struggled, but he was bound tightly to the bed, unable to break free. He tried to cry out, but with no tongue, only pained, guttural moans escaped his throat. 

In the dimly lit room, imperceptible blisters rippled across the boy's dark skin, hundreds, thousands of them. At the same time, the buzzing in Lester's ears intensified. But he seemed entranced, his chanting never stopping. At this moment, the sounds from the street outside, the boy's roars, the sharp screech of the bed frame against the floor, even his own voice, all seemed to drift away like dreamlike whispers. Only that dense, terrifying hum filled the room, like a resounding bell, making his brain boil and churn, completely robbing him of the ability to think. 

Finally, the blisters burst. 

Innumerable flies, swarms of them, flew from the boy's flesh, like insects emerging from a cocoon. They gathered and coalesced in the air, forming a colossal entity that almost filled the room – massive compound eyes, delicate limbs, a greedily agitating mouthpart, and a pair of huge, unseen insect wings beating with a hum. 

At this point, that buzzing finally became completely clear and thunderous. 

Lester felt a million wings beating against him. He could sense the power of this evil spirit; he could feel it – it wanted to break free from its confinement. 

But Lester wouldn't let it. 

He chanted the hymn louder, his mind now exhilarated to the extreme, even more so than after a hit of drugs. He struggled, wrestling with the demon. 

Then, who knows how much time passed – perhaps only seconds, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. Whatever it was, his remaining sanity was insufficient to track the passage of time – eventually, Lester was utterly exhausted and collapsed to the floor. 

And the demon in the room was gone – Lester had expended all his energy, finally trapping it within the bottle using magic. 

"I was much stronger than it. I trapped it with magic. I completely suppressed it," Lester exhaled slowly, closing his eyes as if still savoring the feeling. 

"What about the kid?" Constantine suddenly asked. 

Cody stared at Lester; it was the question he wanted to ask too. 

"The kid? The kid died." 

Lester answered casually, "Like he was peeled... all messed up, bloody pulp." 

Cody clenched his fists. At that moment, rage began to boil in his chest. 

"Anyway, that thing was like smoke, churning in the magic bottle. Even through the glass, I could feel it... It was hungry." 

"It wanted me." 

As he said this, Lester's eyes narrowed, and a smile crept onto his lips. He held his hands up as if cradling an invisible glass bottle, his enraptured expression utterly bizarre, sending shivers down the spines of the three men watching him. 

"How interesting," he murmured dreamily, "It wanted me, and I wanted it – I wanted to feel it inside me, scratching in my veins..." 

"But I held back. It was the first time I'd had such power, the first time I'd truly trapped a demon in a bottle. John, I did it. Unlike that failure in Newcastle, this time, I succeeded." 

Constantine, however, said nothing, simply listening quietly to Lester's account. 

After the sealing was complete, the feeling of exhilaration lasted until deep into the night. But once the high wore off, Lester's spirit plummeted from the clouds into an abyss, as if he would shatter into a million pieces at any moment. Fear and panic stormed through his body, growing wildly, churning his insides into a messy pulp. He collapsed to the floor, curling up, clutching his stomach, which now cramped with terror. 

Drip, drip... 

At that moment, the sound of water in the darkness was unusually loud. Lester turned his head, and in the dim candlelight, he saw a mangled hand resting over the edge of the bed. Blood dripped, one by one, from the stiffening fingertips, splattering against the shimmering outer wall of the magic bottle. 

The buzzing sound returned to his mind. It was the demon speaking to Lester, like a million mournful voices whispering its name simultaneously. 

"Namos..." 

He wanted the demon to shut up, but it spoke and spoke, ceaselessly, all night long. It pleaded with Lester, it threatened Lester, it sang in Lester's ear all night, and he lay limp on the floor, listening all night. 

When dawn broke, the voice was still murmuring – tempting Lester. It knew Lester wanted to let it inside him, so it nurtured that thought in Lester's mind with its voice. 

And Lester was truly about to give in. 

(End of Chapter)