Eighteen Statues Shattered, the Dead Return to Life (3)

If the time displayed on his eyepiece was not incorrect, then three hours and eleven minutes had passed since the war began in Litatera.

Zel captured this time and silently set up a 25-hour countdown via neural connections.

At the same time, the ground suddenly began to tremble, and the streets and buildings of the second district of Litatera began to collapse uncontrollably as if struck by a natural disaster. The earth cracked, debris fell, and even the underground pipelines that transported energy exploded.

Natural disasters and man-made calamities, Daemon rampant—everything happened quietly, just as Horst had predicted.

Zel understood that the situation had deteriorated to a point where the defenders were still fighting. His hearing was so sharp that he could hear their screams, drowned out by a series of disasters, from dozens of meters away.

So he stopped for the time being.

Should we go and provide support?

"Don't do that," a voice told him. "The church needs us."

Zel did not answer him, but instead used his Chainsword to disembowel a former civilian who had been corrupted by some kind of force.

His pale, swollen skin was easily sliced open by the Chainsword, but what gushed out was not blood, but a brownish, foul-smelling liquid, in which fragments of bone and flesh gurgled.

Zel drew his sword, and the corpse slumped to the ground, leaving a disgusting, sticky stain on the stone steps of the small square in front of the church.

A mother, in a panic, clutching her child, stepped over the corpse and ran behind Zel. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of fear and gratitude, left Zel with mixed feelings.

Logically, he should have stopped her from entering the church for refuge, but he didn't. He simply let her leave and then ran to the next group of walkers, hacking them all to pieces.

Long, long ago, he learned one thing—the power of Chaos can be harnessed, but only in one way.

That power is called Wrathful Flames.

In some places, it is reverently referred to as the wrath of the unjustly killed, the flames of despair, and the waves of hatred.

Complex and vast, imbued with religious and mythological elements, it is, in the descendants of Konrad Curze Curze, merely a raging inferno. It belongs to Chaos, a direct manifestation of the power of a terrifying god, but also the natural enemy of other Chaos forces.

No trace of Daemon or corruption can survive for more than five seconds in the face of this power, and it does not cause any damage to the environment; it only kills the damned.

This is a very convenient and very powerful force. It probably only has one problem.

You must pay a price to summon and command it.

However, one thing was particularly fortunate—it was nighttime, and the church's priest was named Horst, so every statue of the God-Emperor within had a different appearance.

Those civilians who survived and sought refuge there probably wouldn't understand why the Emperor had become a black-robed Wraith whose true form could not be seen, but they didn't need to understand.

They'd better not understand.

All they need to do is stay alive.

As long as they enter the church, they can live. The power of that fragment can completely cleanse them of the Chaos contamination, whether it be a terrible virus, a slowly rising bloodlust, or an inappropriate and horrible desire.

All of this will eventually settle into tranquility. Then, at some point, this tranquility will evolve into something entirely new.

That's why Zel set up that countdown.

He wasn't anticipating a "moment of Vengeance" after the supposed accumulation of sacred numbers; he was simply giving himself a warning.

He hoped to resolve everything within twenty-five hours, at least clearing a place for civilians to take refuge, otherwise they would forever become—

Zel took a deep breath and then swung his sword. Blood splattered, staining his goggles crimson.

--Something just like us. He thought.

"Stop being so sentimental, Zel." The voice continued its sarcastic tone. "Why haven't you broken this potentially fatal habit?"

"I was just thinking, sir. Can't your clever mind see that?" Zel said in a cheerful tone, returning the sarcasm.

He was already somewhat helpless. This is why an "adult" is called an "adult"—not out of respect, but because he can never stop being sarcastic and cynical.

Or perhaps it's because his name is too long.

Krostilian Taverelletz is a typical noble name, which is not very friendly to High Gothic. For the sake of convenience, the title "Sir" was stuck on his head.

Considering his background, personality, and military rank, this nickname seems tailor-made for him.

Yes, you guessed it, every "adult" was actually a veiled way of calling him a bastard.

The adult laughed, "Really? My clever mind thinks you've been acting distracted the whole time. What, did I say something wrong? Or are you struggling between duty and conscience again? Ah, the weakness emanating from your fragile humanity is truly absurd and laughable."

"Sir, you really have a brilliant mind!" Zel couldn't help but curse amidst the horde of zombies.

Krostilian couldn't help but burst into laughter amidst his curses. He stood guard on the right side of the circular plaza, dealing with the endless stream of Daemon alongside the executioner Slor.

This defensive line should have been on the verge of collapse, but they had learned to use enemy corpses as cover many years ago. It was a simple and efficient tactic with a long history, probably dating back to the time when humans were still throwing stones at each other on Terra.

Behind them, guarding the left side of the square, was "Skull" Iharal, a combat brother who was extremely obsessed with decapitating powerful enemies. He was very strong, but because of this, he had never been promoted, though he didn't seem to care much.

Zel was responsible for sheltering the refugees and receiving the scout Acapatis, who might return at any time.

He had only been Shadow Knights for thirty-two years, and by all accounts, he shouldn't have been qualified to join this team. But he was truly gifted, especially in stealth, tracking, and creating fear.

The adults even jokingly suggested that he might be a bit atavistic, a slightly insulting assessment that was unexpectedly accepted by Acapatis. So they started calling him a barbarian—a nickname that had nothing to do with his personality or area of expertise.

Zel liked him very much, so he desperately wanted the savage Acapatis to return soon.

In a sense, his hopes had come true. A few minutes later, accompanied by a deafening roar, their recruits suddenly fell from the sky, crashing heavily into the center of the small square, splashing up a pile of pebbles.

Fortunately, he didn't hit any running civilians.

Half a second later, his cough came through the communication channel.

"I'm alright," the barbarian said, coughing up blood. "A big guy came, I tried to lure it away, but it was too fast."

"Skull!" the adult roared immediately. "Go and kill it with Zel! Acapatis, get up and take Skull's place! Slor, go and meet the refugees!"

No one answered; only a few swift Shadow flashed by as they carried out the order with lightning speed. Zel slowed his pace slightly to wait for the skull to catch up.

In most cases, it's much better for two people to face a formidable enemy than for one person to fight alone. However, while he wanted to wait, his enemy wouldn't.

The roar that had echoed once before vanished in a flash behind the horde of diseased zombies, and a strong, enormous black shadow trembled as it charged straight toward him.

Zel's pupils contracted, and he immediately dodged, but the thing was like a terrifying missile with an enemy-or-foe identification system, rushing towards him recklessly, trampling all the zombies in its path into mincemeat.

Shoot it on the head!

Suddenly, the savage Acapatis shouted over the communication channel.

"I planted a bomb in its head!"

Why didn't you say something so important sooner? Zel's eye twitched, and he immediately drew his Boltgun from his waist.

At the same time, a gust of wind swept past him from behind, Iharal, without a word, passed him and charged straight toward the thing.

Judging from their size alone, this was by no means a close battle.

Iharal was only two and a half meters tall, but that thing was at least six meters high, its muscles bulging, its strong limbs and entire body covered in brass armor, with only a portion of flesh exposed, and molten sweat flowing from its crimson skin.

This is a steel bull, and definitely not an ordinary steel bull—where is its owner? Is he dead? It's better if he is dead; it's better if it's an ownerless steel bull.

Zel almost had a toothache; he'd seen this thing overturn a tank with his own eyes. If it went over them...

He immediately abandoned the idea and focused intently on taking aim.

In his sight, Iharal had already silently leaped up, his hands gripping a simple, ancient-style Power Sword.

His opponent roared and lowered his head, already aiming his gleaming horn at Iharal's landing spot.

Steel Bull was not a stupid beast; these vile creatures possessed a fighting instinct that transcended mere instinct. Its small, scarlet eyes, fixed between the armor plates, were fixed on Iharal, as if it could already see his death.

Zel saw more, such as the bomb that the injured Acapatis mentioned.

He saw it with perfect clarity; it was buried to the right of the unicorn, peacefully and contentedly nestled inside a small hole.

You're really taking it easy, little one.

Zel pulled the trigger, and the gunshot flashed and disappeared.

Iharal landed heavily, his chest armor dented, but his sword was raised high, a broken piece lying at his feet.

The steel bull roared and raised its front hooves, trying to trample Iharal to death in the pain of its severed horn, but it would never have that chance again.

A bomb tore through the air and struck precisely the bomb lodged above its head.

Flames roared, and a dark shadow flashed past. Iharal rushed back without stopping, scalding blood gushing from his caved-in chest.

The flames continued to spread, engulfing the air, and the explosion finally resounded. It was more terrifying than thunder, almost destroying Zel's hearing. It took a full half minute for his ears to return to normal.

Then he heard Acapatis laughing on the communication channel, and the adults cursing. "If you do this again, I'll skin you alive!"

"But I earned merit in battle!" the recruit argued. "Shouldn't I be promoted?! I've wanted to visit Nostramo for so long!"

"That wasn't a tour," the executioner said grimly. "It was a way of making up for a missing part of your responsibility, but it wasn't a good thing; it was a slow, potent poison."

"Don't expect it to come. We should have already reached a consensus on this."

His voice and words seemed to have a magical power, instantly calming Acapatis down.

This is probably because Slor has killed so many people; he has spent sixty years focusing on fighting corruption in the Hive City, nipping many potential rebellions in the bud around the world in the bud.

His achievements were remarkable, but the price he paid was becoming increasingly gloomy, which almost became a disease, causing him to unconsciously distance himself from people and spend his days and nights studying some terrible skills.

Zel didn't want to comment on the matter, and even if Slor chose to go further, he wouldn't criticize her—they both knew very well that the executioner would never cross that red line.

"Don't frighten the child, Slor," the adult said cheerfully. "Alright, that thing is dead. Now we should think about what to do next. What do you think?"

Zel glanced in his direction and saw him standing on a pile of corpses, twirling his Power Sword arrogantly, deliberately displaying a sense of pride and complacency.

Zel had already guessed his purpose and what he really wanted to do, so he continued, "We should move the people out of the church."

"That's a good idea, but where should we move it to?" the adult asked gently.

He had gone from twirling his sword to swinging it, each swing taking a life. Whatever they were, they were all treated equally under his blade. His movements were incredibly elegant, almost as if he were dancing a magnificent waltz of slaughter with the sword in his hand.

Zel frowned in exasperation, then pulled out his Boltgun and fired a Molotov cocktail in the direction of the adult—he simply couldn't stand the adult's aristocratic airs; every time he saw it, he felt like he couldn't breathe.

Then, he received a dismissive snort.

"Is it really that your fragile humanity can't take it anymore just because I asked a question, Zel?"

"Go to hell with you," Zel said. "There are two Vindicators in the church, so it shouldn't be a problem. You, Slor, and Iharal stay here and continue holding the line. My barbarians and I will go out and find a quiet place, how about that?"

"I have no objection," Acapatis replied very quickly to his proposal; he had probably been eagerly anticipating it for a long time.

The adult chuckled, slowly emerging from the flames, and with a backhand thrust of his sword, pierced one of the lesser Daemon that had tried to ambush him. The creature screamed and turned into ashes, its ugly form vanishing without a trace, as if it had never existed.

"I'm the captain, don't forget that, but what you said is correct, Zel. I agree with your proposal, and that plan you haven't mentioned yet."

"What plan?" the skull, which had remained silent until now, suddenly asked.

"What else could it be? It's just that our paladin's innate sense of justice has once again taken over; he wants to help the local defense forces."

The adult's assessment was quite harsh, and he even shook his head to show his disdain. Nevertheless, his subsequent words and tone were remarkably gentle.

"Go do what we were supposed to do, Zel," Krostilian Tavirelets said. "Don't die, Your Excellency, the great righteous and utterly humane paladin."

"I understand, you smart adult," Zel said. "I really want to punch you."

Amidst the adults' laughter, Acapatis darted up to him, not forgetting to stab a few more zombies to death with his fist blades along the way, displaying a very combative nature.

Zel patted him on the shoulder, then turned and vanished into a black phantom amidst the corpses and collapsed buildings. Acapatis followed closely behind, making no further sound; he had entered a meditative state.

They are all like that.

At this moment, there are 22 hours and 27 minutes remaining until the 25-hour countdown ends.

--

Tujea took off his coat, gripped his pistol, and walked to the side entrance of the church. His ears were filled with cries, shouts, and a constant stream of prayers.

To put it bluntly, he felt like he was in a giant mental hospital, surrounded by people who had suffered tremendous blows and gone insane.

So, what about him? Was he one of them?

Tujea wished he were, but he really wasn't.

He raised his gun, pushed aside the handcart blocking the side door, and pulled it away.

A woman with a terrified expression rushed in carrying a child, followed by several men dressed as workers. They practically tumbled and crawled into the church, making the already crowded chapel even narrower.

Tujea felt that, probably not long afterward, there wouldn't even be a place left to stand, not even Shadow.

He pushed the cart back, closed the side door, and began to walk back. He never lowered the gun in his hand; it remained raised high.

Rather than a ready-to-fire stance, it looked more like a deliberate deterrent. Tujea wasn't sure if a riot would break out inside the church soon, but he would do everything in his power to prevent it.

He walked to the foot of the overturned pulpit and looked at the pale-faced man lying on it. The man was undergoing a simple, unanesthetized suturing procedure.

He assumed the surgeon was a renowned yet very low-key priest, but Tujea knew that the priest named Horst was actually a butcher skilled in slaughtering humans.

He watched as the butcher, with hands that bore no trace of a knife grip, steadily threaded a needle and completely stitched up a dangerous laceration on the abdomen.

It would be no exaggeration to praise him as a doctor with superb medical skills. The only problem is that the patient was in excruciating pain, but the doctor was completely indifferent to it.

After bandaging the man, Horst pulled him up and gently pushed him aside. Immediately afterward, the next patient lay down on his own.

His injury was on his right upper arm, apparently caused by being struck by a heavy object. A broken bone protruded from between his elbows, with tendons stubbornly wrapped around it, making it look even more gruesome.

Tujea frowned and asked in a low voice, "Should we hold him down?"

"No need," Horst said.

His voice sounded very firm, even to an eerie degree.

Immediately afterwards, the investigators saw the steadfast priest pull a silver the Emperor statue from his neck. It was not the usual image of the Emperor in compassion, but rather a stern face with wide-open, angry eyes.

The pastor reached out and grasped it, bowed his head, and began to pray in a soft voice.

Seeing this, Tujea's face twitched violently—he really hadn't expected Horst to start praying, but what he didn't expect even more was that the priest's prayer had actually succeeded.

A golden light silently spilled from between the priest's clenched right fingers, drifting onto the severed hand. In a flash, his arm was miraculously restored.

The man jumped up from the overturned pulpit in disbelief, immediately knelt down, and tears streamed down his dirty face. He began to loudly and fervently praise the Emperor's blessings, completely disregarding the pastor.

Horst ignored him, simply standing up and looking around. After confirming that there were no more wounded patients requiring treatment, he walked into his inner room with a grim face.

Tujea followed closely behind, entering the building and casually pulling a knife from his lower back.

"Here you go," Tujea said. "I'm fine now; you should need them more than I do."

"No." Horst refused without turning his head.

He raised his hands, took off his black robe, and instead picked up a white priest's robe hanging on the coat rack and put it on.

Tujea couldn't help but wipe his forehead. He simply couldn't ignore this—it was truly bizarre and blasphemous. How could the priest of the God-Emperor simultaneously worship another god?

Does the God-Emperor have no objection to this?

Even if He doesn't, what about the other God? Does He have no objection?

"Keep it," Horst said, turning around. "That knife will keep you sane most of the time, and for people like us, saneness is more important than anything else."

"A Vindicators has lost their senses is a dangerous and out-of-control beast. You will no longer be able to refuse the proposals of the wronged souls, and you will become a machine driven by the unjustly killed. So, grip it tightly and begin to learn how to wield the knife, Tujea."

The investigator paused for a moment, then suddenly asked, "Are you giving your last words?"

The pastor smiled, not only without getting angry, but even nodded seriously.

You could say that I don't think I'll survive this war.

"Why?"

Horst did not answer the question, but instead gave a rather enigmatic smile.

He seemed to have reverted to the gentle priest, instead of the gloomy, unsmiling, and terrifying butcher. Of course, you have to ignore the blood on his hands to make that assessment.

Tujea was momentarily stunned before realizing that Horst's hands were covered in blood.

During that horrific massacre that night, his hands remained untouched by blood.

"What are you going to do?" Unconsciously, Tujea's instincts beat his reason to ask the question.

"I want to protect my church," the pastor said gently. "That's my answer, Tujea. But, having asked me so many questions, may I ask you one as well?"

Tujea nodded.

"Do you believe in miracles?" the pastor asked.

Tujea took a step back, leaned against the small door of the inner room, and, feeling the increasingly unified sound of people's prayers, slowly shook his head, then nodded.

"If this had happened two weeks ago, I could have said I didn't believe it. I believe in the God-Emperor, but I don't believe in miracles, because I've never seen one. Even among those who need it most, I've never witnessed a miracle."

"The kind are only oppressed, while those who abandon morality live more freely. If someone is born evil, they can enjoy themselves in the Hive City while mocking those who obey the law and strive to survive. But now, I'm not so sure."

Tujea gripped the knife tightly and slowly raised it.

"Which god do you worship, Horst? And why can He so readily bestow miracles?"

"Didn't the Emperor bestow His Mercy upon us?" the pastor countered. "Shouldn't we be grateful for His sacrifice to ensure the continuation of our lives? If it weren't for Him, this conversation between us wouldn't even be happening."

"As for the other deity you mentioned, you already know the answer in your heart. His power is so simple and direct that he will never hide it. Vengeance is Vengeance, without the need for any words to embellish it. Vengeance is inherently a cruel and bloody murder."

"So, the god of Vengeance?" Tujea murmured, uttering the title, but received a smile from Horst, a smile so enigmatic that its meaning was impossible to fathom.

"Most of the time, He is a god of Vengeance. But after a while, He will turn back into Him, and He will return to us, Tujea. You will see that," the pastor said firmly.

He walked toward the small door, gently yet forcefully pushing Tujea aside, and stuffed something heavy into his hands.

Tujea, not bothering to look, was about to leave with him, but the wooden door suddenly vanished before his eyes. The investigator stared wide-eyed in disbelief, and at the same time, he heard the priest's voice.

"A little trick, stay inside, Tujea. If things really get to the point of no return... well, anyway, protect it."

What should we protect?

Tujea lowered his head in confusion and saw a black fragment that he had seen before.

In that instant, he lost his footing and fell into the abyss.

He saw a pair of completely black eyes.