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Summary
a deafening silence stands before his eyes as noisy ripples, and he can feel the cold ringing of his soul with the tips of his thin fingers, hear other people's thoughts, fly on his own inflated power like a true god, only this is neither a gift from heaven, nor the curse of hell. Because he is not an immortal deity and not a rejected archangel, but only a small dung fly that believed that he could become a gorgeous butterfly.
But to be reborn as a king, you must first die as a true plebeian.