Death Old Man drained the last sip of tea from his cup, rose to straighten the collar of his trench coat, then walked to the door and paused. He looked back.
"Lohr, I know you're no good either. But this time, what you did was right."
Wu Heng did not answer.
Death Old Man walked out the door and vanished into thin air. The sulfur torches cast their light over the spot where he had disappeared, leaving nothing behind.
Wu Heng sat alone in the Throne Hall, gazing at the dark red sky beyond the window.
Seven days. People had remembered their hatred. God had not appeared. Metatron was still forging his blade. Death Old Man had taken his side. Everything was proceeding according to plan.
He lowered his head and looked at his hands. The lines in his palms glimmered faintly in the darkness. The Heaven portion was almost complete.
From the day people began to despise Heaven, the sky changed.
Not in color, but in texture.
It was as though something had forced the clouds apart from within, sending rings of pale golden ripples spreading along their edges.
That was not sunlight. It was the Heavenly Barrier being scoured by some force—not by blades, guns, or any weapon, but by hatred.
The hatred billions of people felt toward Heaven, all at once.
That hatred poured from every survivor's chest, gathering into an invisible torrent that surged toward the Heavenly Barrier that had remained sealed for far too long.
London. Old John sat outside his home.
He did not know why he was sitting there. He only knew that ever since that day, he could feel something constantly rising out of his body.
It was not air or heat, but something else. His chest felt stifled, as if a