Your comments were lengthy and eloquent, and I've read every word — truly moving. I really feel that these six years of writing haven't been in vain. Being reported all the way to the very end, yet persisting like this — it wasn't wrong. Thank you to friends like Nightmare Twelve.
Thank you to Juyu, to Elder Xi's Ancestor, and to others for their congratulations and for organizing activities. But for some reason, Qidian hasn't enabled the birthday blessing feature. That's all right — I'm genuinely happy.
Ever since that period of secluded cultivation, I've deeply felt how insignificant I am as an individual. Being able to write this book feels like barely managing to light an oil lamp in the darkness. From time to time, wind comes rushing from the shadows, and I have to do everything I can to shield it, to keep this tiny little oil lamp from being blown out. Sometimes my heart aches, too — in such a vast world, can't there be room for one small oil lamp? In an internet environment that supposedly values free expression, can't there be room for one *Reverend Insanity*?
Lately, I've grown increasingly unwilling to be labeled with the tag of "dark literature." Because the themes of *Reverend Insanity* have already ascended through several levels. Right now, it is like a small oil lamp in the darkness — it is light. Though its glow is faint, it can still illuminate quite a few people. People like you and me.