Chapter 94

Chapter 94

The slime surged forward with terrifying speed, a rising tide of filth that reached them in the blink of an eye.

Michael’s senses screamed at the sudden, violent spike in pollution. Golden wings snapped open from his back, and with no time for grace, he hooked an arm under Lu Yan and another under Yan Bei, hauling them into the air. He adjusted his grip, feeling the difference in weight.

“So it’s you who’s the heavy one,” he grunted at Yan Bei. Hovering in place was more draining than sustained flight.

Below, the great hall floor vanished beneath a seething layer of mucus. As it settled, the color deepened into a churning, fleshy pulp. Embedded within the rough surface were countless pairs of malicious eyes, all fixed unblinkingly on the figures above.

A strange sense of familiarity prickled at Lu Yan’s mind. He’d seen this before. In the dream he’d had when first obtaining the [Delirium] talent—the depths of an ocean, a floor covered in the same sickening, bloodshot orbs. The difference here was motion; these eyes swam freely through the spread-out meat paste like fish in a grotesque pond.

A putrid stench of spoiled meat and eggs filled the chamber.

“Don’t look directly at the eyes,” Lu Yan warned. “It accelerates pathological progression.” That was how Wurilei had met his end.

‘Met his end’ isn’t quite right. Wurilei took his own life. In myth, he governed terror and wrath. This Wurilei was the same—armed with the dagger Hellfire and the talent [Judgment], plus wings for flight. Hard for any pollutant to kill him, if he hadn’t chosen death himself.

“What exactly is the [Judgment] talent?” Lu Yan asked.

The system seemed to mull it over, answering reluctantly. [Judgment is, ‘With me as the law, I adjudicate the mortal world.’ I admit, its #5 ranking might have some merit. But I maintain the #6 ranked talent is the most 6!]

Lu Yan noted that as his spiritual power threshold increased, the system was becoming more… human. Or emotional. He could almost detect a “come comfort me” tone in its words. Comforting it was not his style. He nocked an arrow instead. “Which eyeball is this slug’s true body?”

[548th from the south, 154th from the west. Go find it. It just shifted a bit to the left.]

Useless information to anyone else. For Lu Yan, it was enough. His eyes were like camera lenses, capable of briefly replaying captured scenes in his mind. He studied the ground below for a focused moment, then shut his eyes, simulating the coordinates in his mental map. The sheer psychic contamination from recalling those eyes made his head throb.

He drew and released towards the southwest, aiming for a spot before a damaged angel statue—its wings half-shattered, its lower body replaced by writhing tentacles. A single eyeball darted away through the red muck like a startled fish.

[Whoops. Missed.]

The sudden motion of the shot nearly made Michael lose his grip. “What are you doing?” Michael asked, voice dry. “Playing Cupid?”

“Finding the eye.” Lu Yan paused. “Among so many, I can vaguely sense which one holds the core.”

Michael looked genuinely shocked. “Has a talent ranked in the 500s gotten that powerful now?”

Yan Bei’s gaze swept the room, finally locking onto the massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It resembled blossoming petals, at least five or six meters across, suspended by heavy chains. It looked solid. His hair began to grow at an impossible rate, less like strands and more like thick, woody roots. They shot out, coiling tightly around the chandelier’s base.

He gave an experimental tug. It held. “Let go,” he said to Michael.

With a skeptical look, Michael released him. Yan Bei swung like a pendulum, then used his hair-vines to clamber onto the chandelier itself. He turned. “Here.”

For a ranged attacker, a good vantage point was sometimes more critical than pure skill.

Only a few wall sconces burned, casting the hall in deep gloom that made the floor’s slime even more horrifying. Blotchy pink flesh began creeping up the walls, multiplying like malignant ivy. Lu Yan glanced at the doors and windows—already sealed shut by the advancing meat, guarded by watchful clusters of eyes.

Michael tested the waters, swinging his holy sword down towards the mass. A brilliant arc of golden light cleaved through, vaporizing scores of eyes into dust. But the surrounding flesh simply split and regenerated, filling the gap instantly. The remaining eyes seemed to gleam with mockery.

Irritation flashed across Michael’s face. In mere minutes, he’d seen the corpse of a long-lost comrade and now faced this abomination. It was enough to sour anyone’s mood. But years on the front lines had honed his instincts. Recognizing his deteriorating state, he fished a military-grade sedative from his chest pocket and downed it in one go. He tossed the empty vial down. The meat surged over it, swallowing it whole without leaving even a shard of glass.

“Michael,” Lu Yan called out. “Watch my arrow.”

[Using the angel statue as origin, the entrance as the Y-axis, establish a Cartesian grid. One eyeball equals one unit.]

[1123, 81.]

Lu Yan closed his eyes, calculated, and let the silver arrow fly. The arrowhead shot forth like a swift meteor. The accumulated flesh was thick now; the arrow plunged halfway in before its energy detonated, blasting a crater that oozed black blood.

Michael was already moving, his sword descending. A huge swath of rotten meat vaporized under the holy light, the solid stone floor beneath carved into a deep fissure.

[1217, -46.]

A second arrow.

The meat pulp let out a shrill shriek, writhing violently.

[1365, -217.]

A third arrow.

…

…

With each shot, Lu Yan’s calculation time shortened. Inversely, his breathing grew ragged. Phantasmagoric colors swam at the edges of his vision, a psychedelic haze like mushroom poisoning.

[Host.] The system’s tone was urgent. [Medication. Now.]

He was drenched in a cold sweat he hadn’t noticed. He pulled out his mint-flavored suppressant, but it dissolved on his tongue with little effect—likely formulated for a different stage of progression.

From behind, Yan Bei wrapped his arms around Lu Yan, resting his head against his back. Hair-tendrils slipped into Lu Yan’s pocket, retrieving the small white flowers and pushing them towards his mouth. Lu Yan swallowed instinctively. They tasted milky and sweet. But there weren’t enough.

The vines found Yan Bei’s own dagger in his pack. With precise gentleness, they made a small incision on the back of Yan Bei’s neck. Instantly, a dozen more white blossoms bloomed from the tips of his hair. Yan Bei plucked them, forming a tiny bouquet, and fed them to Lu Yan.

The chaotic colors receded from Lu Yan’s sight, clarity returning. He nocked another arrow.

Though the Merchant had lost its reason, animal instinct remained. After several near-fatal strikes, it sensed true danger. Its previous prey always succumbed to the mental pollution within minutes, standing docile until consumed—like the disaster hunters before. This group was different.

A sliver of retreat entered its mind. Michael’s holy sword burned with a light that seared pollutants, the pain making its eyes bloodshot and unbearable. The meat’s upward climb slowed noticeably; eyes began vanishing in large patches. It couldn’t continue like this. It couldn’t reach them, and the mental assault was losing potency. Draining itself further was a losing strategy.

The meat began contracting towards the center, coalescing into a rolling, spherical mass.

But Lu Yan’s arrow tip shifted away from the central ball.

[Front left corner.]

The Merchant, a student of tactical deception, believed in sacrificing the pawn to save the king. Past success had made it confident in this move. It was the worst decision of its existence. The previous worst was letting its wife swallow that vile placenta.

In the corner, a single, bean-sized eyeball sprouted spider-like legs and scuttled towards a crack in the wall.

Thwip.

The silver arrow crossed the dozens of meters in a flash of unstoppable intent, piercing the tiny, skittering orb and pinning it to the wall.

A scream that grated on the eardrums tore through the hall!

The eight-legged eyeball writhed against the stone, nailed in place, its agonized shrieks raising the hairs on the neck. At the center of the room, the giant meat ball instantly lost all cohesion. It burst like a shattered water skin, spraying rotten pulp and gory debris across the floor. The countless eyes rapidly shriveled and died, leaving behind only a network of interconnected white sinews spread across the ground—a vast, grotesque spider web.

The Merchant’s cries faded to a weak gurgle, then fell silent.

“Is it dead?” Lu Yan asked.

[Dead.]

Michael frowned, gingerly setting foot on the ground. It was slick with disgusting meat slurry.

---

Lu Yan pulled out his phone from his utility belt and snapped a few photos for the mission log. Everything here would be sent to headquarters later.

Finally, he had a moment to examine Uriel up close.

Twenty-six years on a cross. Even for a highly aberrant Awakener, most of his body had withered, skin clinging taut to bone. Only his clothes, made of some special material, retained a shred of their former opulence.

Deep brown hair, straight and long, fell past his knees. His head hung low, giving Lu Yan a clear view of the crown of his skull.

Uriel stood three meters tall. His head was proportionally larger.

Which made the wound on the back of it all the more glaring.

A hole, punched clean through. Judging by the trauma, something sharp and conical had been driven in with brutal force.

[Looks familiar, doesn't it? Ignorance is bliss.] The system’s tone held a trace of pity. [That’s an aptitude transplant surgery.]

[‘Judgment’ was stolen by the Deep Sea Society.]

[Once, an angel of justice judged the world. Now, the arbiter has become Satan.]

Yanbei still held Lu Yan around the waist, his expression weary.

He rested his forehead against Lu Yan’s back, his voice soft. “No more flowers today. The researcher said… if I turn into a tree, I won’t be able to move anymore.”

Michael finished documenting the scene and flew back up, ready to carry Yanbei and Lu Yan down to the ground.

Lu Yan pointed at Uriel’s head. “Michael. This wound on his head. It looks like an aptitude transplant.”

Michael’s wings beat once, carrying him to the top of the cross.

He stared at the wound, his eyes rimmed with red.

After a long moment, Michael took a deep, shuddering breath. He raised his phone and took the picture.