Chapter 98

Chapter 98

Michael walked through the icy tunnel, the light from his phone's flashlight carving a path through the gloom.

The device had been modified by techs—5G capable, shockproof, waterproof, with a battery that could last three days. The only downside was its size and weight; for most people, it would feel like carrying a brick. But Michael was tall, and the heft of it in his hand felt just right.

Tattered cloth strips and vines hung from the tunnel ceiling. On the ground, occasional fish carcasses lay desiccated, brittle as kindling.

This was supposed to be the third-floor C-section room. But Michael had seen no trace of modern medicine on his descent.

A door waited at the corridor's end. It looked like a study.

Michael employed some forcible entry. Inside, specimens lined the shelves, and books on the occult sat thick with dust. In the room's center stood a stone dais, encircled by rocks painted with crude red symbols. An altar.

A massive, grotesque mural dominated the far wall. Its imagery was surreal and disturbing—something deep-sea and monstrous. The depicted eyes seemed to follow him.

Shaking off the feeling, he moved to the cluttered desk. A cup sat there, the water inside long dried. The whole space felt lived-in, as if its owner had just stepped out.

His flashlight beam settled on a red book. Its title, in bold characters, read: How to Summon an Evil God in Five Minutes.

Thoroughly dubious. But for the sake of investigation, he flipped it open. The script inside was unrecognizable—a fusion of several languages, punctuated by simple diagrams. All the text was a dark, rust red. He leaned closer, catching a faint, metallic scent. Not human blood. Pollutant blood.

Finding it largely illegible, he skimmed quickly.

The final page held an illustration: a red moon hung over a pregnant woman, her abdomen slit open, several hands reaching out from within.

Michael sat in the desk chair and pulled open a drawer. Business documents filled it. At the very bottom, he found the merchant's diary.

He'd taken psychology in university. He knew journaling was a pressure valve.

The diary chronicled the rise of a middle-class accountant: how he wooed the daughter of a conglomerate's chairman, and how, after the old man's death, he seamlessly took over the family business.

To secure the marriage, the merchant had tampered with contraception. She got pregnant. Their state had passed a heartbeat bill; termination was difficult. So, she married him. Their first child was lost in an accidental miscarriage at six months.

This wasn't surprising. The merchant had a low sperm count. Conceiving the first time had required… less than honorable methods. Methods that involved seeking help from the Deep Sea Society.

The first half, from the man's perspective, read like a success story. Through marriage, he vaulted into high society. By the time he purchased Crohman Manor, he was the undisputed head of a trans-oceanic shipping group.

In return, he secretly funded the Deep Sea Society's activities—voyages, deep-sea exploration, searches for ancient ruins. In the early days of the Pollution Disease outbreak, money still held significant power.

[I have begun to glimpse the truth of the world. I am afraid.]

[Perhaps I should leave the Society. Even after witnessing so-called pollutants and Apostles, as an ordinary man, these supernatural forces fill me with dread…]

[The Society Leader… I met him when I was twenty-two, and he was so young. Now I am forty-eight, and his appearance hasn't changed a day. Is the Leader even human anymore?]

The later entries grew increasingly disordered, the handwriting degenerating into a frantic scrawl.

The merchant wanted an heir—someone to inherit his commercial empire and his will. He turned to the Society again.

[I watched Jennifer swallow the thing. She was reluctant, but she is no longer the cherished young mistress of nineteen with a doting father. The luxury she enjoys now is by my grace. She had no real choice. She needs my money to maintain her decadent life. I could have let her leave with a pittance, but I am too merciful.]

Michael's fist clenched.

[I had hoped my mistress would bear my child. She is younger, more beautiful. But the Leader said no. Twenty years ago, Jennifer already ingested the catalyst… Only she can complete the gestation.]

[The Leader said Jennifer could have become an Apostle. The pregnancy halted her awakening, transferring that potential to the child. A pity the first one was lost before term. It was divine will.]

[They called it a placenta. Like a human embryo. Soon, Jennifer was truly pregnant.]

……

……

[Jennifer has undergone an aberration. I had no choice but to follow the doctor's advice. I've locked her in the basement.]

[The doctor says the child in her womb is healthy. It will be born an Apostle, possessing great power. A bargaining chip for future control of the world's narrative. It will have the might of a god.]

[Now she's like a zombie from a horror film. Ha.]

……

……

[A maid actually let her out of the basement! That bitch. I was bitten… The doctor says we will be fine. He has prepared an antidote. I hope so.]

[My name is Andrew. The date is November 25, 2063. Christmas is soon. I may not last the winter. I can feel it—the part of me that is human is fading. The Leader calls this evolution. Evolution? I don't understand… Is changing from man to monster evolution? I will no longer feel joy, or fear, or anger. I will have no thoughts. No memory.]

[What is the difference between this kind of evolution and death, besides gaining power and a long life?]

[The Leader says not to fear. When the god descends, all filth will be purged, dead souls will return to the beginning. We will share a beautiful new world.]

[On the day the crimson moon arrives, the great Superior One will descend.]

The air here was thick with moisture, each breath damp enough to make Michael feel like he was drowning.

He snapped the diary shut. "Psychopath," he spat.

*

Lu Yan closed the bedroom door and placed the small red flower on his palm.

Its petals were unassuming, like a common wildflower, the bud frail. It was hard to believe it could save a life.

[Usage: Oral ingestion. The flower will wither within a day. Personally, I advise you keep it. What's a lethal wound to you isn't necessarily one for the sapling. Better safe than sorry.]

[Inexperienced boys are like that, losing their heads over a pretty face,] the System said with grave concern. [Good child, don't you learn from him. Stay wary of sweet-talking heartbreakers with tails.]

Lu Yan was used to the System's occasional needling.

He pocketed the flower, not planning to use it.

The path to the surgery room was still blocked. Key in hand, he headed for the stairs.

"Where's Michael?" he asked.

[The surgery room has a hidden stairwell. Dark, but it leads all the way down to the basement door. Michael is currently there, figuring out how to break the lock.]

In other words, if Lu Yan went down, he'd meet him at the basement entrance.

The key in his hand was key-shaped, but its cylindrical shaft was studded with sharp, movable spikes.

[This key is very useful,] the System said, offering nothing more.

Lu Yan reached the first-floor hall. The merchant's corpse had fully putrefied. Bits of filth clung to the corner statues like sticky gossamer.

Outside, the red moon was completely shrouded by black clouds, not a sliver of light remained. Even with his night vision, Lu Yan could barely see.

In the center of the hall, Wurilei's body still hung. But at some point, his head had lifted.

From his nail-pierced eyes, two trails of bloody tears flowed down his cheeks.

The scene was grotesque, absurd, yet perversely captivating.

The System spoke abruptly, its tone unusually severe. [Take Michael's feather. Approach Wurilei. He has an item crucial for the boss fight. Important. Critically important.]

Lu Yan paused, then found the few remaining golden feathers.

The moment he picked one up, it burst into flame without any external spark.

Holding the burning feather, he moved toward Wurilei.

The archangel's lower body had transformed; root-like tendrils dug deep into the floor. Lu Yan realized then—the merchant's remaining flesh likely hadn't just withered after death. It had been absorbed by Wurilei's roots.

Wurilei’s eyes remained shut, but Lu Yan couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d started breathing.

The halo of light from the burning feather shrank by half the moment he drew near.

“He’s not going to sit up suddenly, is he?” Lu Yan asked.

Something about the archangel set his nerves on edge. Inside him, Wang Yu stirred restlessly.

You’ve always had the world’s worst luck, but I’m happy to report—not yet.

“But he will later?”

I don’t know the future. But if he does rise again, the Gu Master will be behind it.

Lu Yan recalled the file the System had provided earlier—the Gu Master had gone abroad with his father when he was very young.

Alright, time’s running short, my treasure. The item is in Wurilei’s mouth.

Unfortunately, Lu Yan couldn’t fly, and Wurilei was suspended high on the cross.

After a moment’s thought, and not wanting to desecrate a Senior’s remains, he decided to put Wang Yu to work.

His oversized offspring extruded a long, muscular tongue. It wrapped once around the chandelier overhead and hauled Lu Yan up.

Thankfully, after several rounds of evolution, the tongue was plenty long enough. Climbing the cross would have been far less dignified.

The whole scene was absurd. A small mercy that no one but the System would ever see it.

Lu Yan shifted his position. With his remaining hand, he touched Wurilei’s lips.

Death and time had hollowed the archangel’s face to a gaunt mask, but the bone structure beneath hinted at a once-striking beauty.

He pried the pale lips apart.

Embedded in Wurilei’s tongue was a small, golden cross.

In the West, the cross carries the same superstitious weight as a peach-wood sword—a tool to suppress evil. Which is nonsense, of course. But the one in your hand? It actually works.

It’s a finger bone. Pulled from the deep sea by an ocean liner, many years ago.

“Whose bone?”

The System attempted a deflection. Who knows? Maybe an alien’s.

When the System didn’t want to talk, Lu Yan knew he’d get nothing more.

He pulled the golden cross from Wurilei’s mouth. Dark, coagulated blood welled up, slicking his fingers.

Back on the ground, the golden feather Michael had given him was already fading. It flickered twice, then died completely, crumbling to ash in his palm.

At least Wurilei hadn’t stirred.

Lu Yan tucked the cross away with the sedative, took a steadying breath, and headed for the basement door.