"Wonderful, Mr. Lazarus, when I first saw this thing, even I was shocked!"

Belphegor shouted loudly as the train on the screen came toward the audience, carrying an indescribable sense of realism. Bologue's body tensed uncontrollably, as if he was really about to collide head-on with the train.

The train rushed out of the screen.

Bologue could smell the burning coal and hear the roaring sounds of gears. In the instant the train got infinitely close, it transformed into an illusory phantom and dissipated before him.

"Ha ha!"

Belphegor's laughter was never-ending, and in the cinema, someone like him was definitely in the less welcome category.

As a movie enthusiast, Bologue knew what this was, "The Arrival of a Train," humanity's first film and possibly the first horror movie. When people first saw this strange "movie" thing, the oncoming train frightened many.

"This thing is amazing, compared to poetry, novels, music, the information it can carry is undoubtedly the richest and most complex."

Belphegor agreed, the film's soundtrack became splendid, and the image grew clearer, even tinged with color.

Poets liked this new thing, as their function was no longer limited to "poetry." They immersed themselves in the new wave, bringing countless films to Belphegor every year.

Bologue's heart remained tense; the friendly coexistence between humans and the Devil in the film was only temporary. After the Dawn War, the continent would usher in another mad conflict.

Soon, the wrath of scorched earth burst forth.

This is not an ordinary film but fragments of memory extracted from the soul. It is not a fake performance, but a reality engraved into the soul.

Everything Bologue saw was from the poets' first perspective; it not only brought real scenes but also imparted those genuine emotions to the audience.

The long-lost feeling returned to the body; in a trance, Bologue felt he was back on the battlefield, becoming one of those charging forward to face death. Shells landed with a roaring boom, falling beside Bologue, who had no means of evasion and could only entrust everything to fate's mercy.

Bologue died, shattered by the shell, and the next moment, he opened his eyes again, becoming another soldier, continuing to charge forward, then dying, reviving, dying, reviving, repeating countless times.

Bologue understood that he hadn't truly resurrected; rather, after one poet dies, his perspective switched to another poet.

Different poets saw different aspects of war, some witnessing the King's servility, some observing great scholars defending their cities, while others saw the gathering of demons plotting something...

A bright light rose from the ground, annihilating everything.

Bologue's face turned pale, feeling the heat rushing towards him, the phantom pain of burning fire coursing through his body, causing slight trembling.

Finally, it all ended. Bologue breathed heavily, hugged the popcorn bucket, and vomited forcefully.

Belphegor brought him to experience this lengthy history, and though it was a rough glimpse, the overflow of information almost burst Bologue's head, causing a splitting headache.

"You're a terrible director... what did you even edit..."

Bologue couldn't stop vomiting, he felt like he was about to throw up his intestines.

Previously, Bologue loved the montage editing method, but Belphegor forced out over an hour of it, under the piercing noise; it felt like a nightmare, a waking nightmare.

"Don't you think I perfectly expressed the oppression and madness of war?"

Belphegor felt he was great, while Bologue failed to appreciate it.

Bologue wiped the corner of his mouth, not refuting.

"Ah... after the war, the world welcomed peace, new technology brought increasingly charming things," Belphegor stared at the screen, enchanted, "Various artistic creations blossomed; the daily birth of new works surpassed those a few years in the old era, dazzling."

"Sometimes I feel the soul isn't that important to me anymore; just living in such a world, witnessing the birth of beautiful things, is enough."

Belphegor rarely expressed his sincere thoughts to someone, shedding his sinister facade as much as possible to appear as an ordinary mortal.

Thus, Belphegor was the least interested in disputes among the Devils.

Bologue asked, "What happened to cause all this corruption."

"Nothing much, in hindsight, it seems more like an inevitability of the era," Belphegor said, "With technological advancement, new things brought simple and straightforward sensory stimulation, numerous as cow hairs."

"In the old times, some couldn't read many books nor hear many stories in their lifetime, making them exceptionally precious, worth poets' pursuits and songs. But the new era is different, what was once cherished is everywhere, easily accessible.

Sometimes the songs you listen to in a week might be more than what your father heard in a lifetime, not to mention stories... These precious things became cheap; compared to reading those ancient poems, new things undoubtedly bring a stronger thrill."

Belphegor slowly clenched his fist, "The arrival of the new era made one of my siblings perceive an opportunity. She took advantage of it to corrupt the Unfettered Poetry Society; people no longer cherished those eternal and distant pursuits, but focused more on immediate joy."

Belphegor pondered for a while, asking Bologue, "How is it usually said... Fast-food culture? I remember reading it in the newspaper, is that right?"

"Sort of..."

"That's about it; under the influence of another Devil, the Unfettered Poetry Society gradually split, and with the temptation to revel in the moment, poets became fewer, nearly extinct. She thus destroyed what I loved, turning it into the Zongge Orchestra."

Belphegor glanced at Bologue, "Which is the group that attacked you."

"But I still don't understand what exactly you promised the poets? Merely eternal life can seduce them?"

From the film, Bologue could perceive that what Belphegor said was true; he and the poets were equal, like friends, moving forward for the same ideal.

This puzzled Bologue, making it hard to imagine such a relationship between the Devils and humans, like a fairy tale.

"Endless Poems."

Belphegor spoke softly, "That's what we called our ideal, which would be a poetry collection, an immensely thick collection recording every 'poem' created by every 'poet' from ancient times to the present, whether or not they joined the Unfettered Poetry Society.

It covers all forms of art humans can create, whether music or novels, even graphic design, are preserved within."

Belphegor continued, "As for the eternal life I promised... Mr. Lazarus, do you believe true eternal life exists in the world?"

Bologue said, "Are you joking? You just mentioned the one in the Undying Club."

"But he also gained eternal life through the Devil's Power. What if one day the Devil dies? Would his eternal life still exist?"

Belphegor's words pierced Bologue's heart like a cold arrow; he widened his eyes, looking at Belphegor beside him, who was still wearing sunglasses, making his gaze invisible.

"You mean... Devils can die too?"

"Just treat it as a hypothesis. If Devils die, would the eternal life they promised still exist?"

Belphegor appeared indifferent, still asking Bologue this question.

Bologue took a deep breath, "No way..."

"Then I ask you, what form do you think would count as true eternal life?"

Belphegor continued to ask, "The immortality of the body or the eternity of the spirit?"

Bologue didn't respond, still troubled by Belphegor's words that seemed less like a hypothesis and more like a real possibility.

Even Devils can die.

Bologue felt gusts and waves rushing toward him, within this absurd cinema.

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