Discharge

The "Spirit King" was dead...

Gilan was somewhat dazed.

As one of the apostles of the October Hour-God, the "White Dove Poet," Loserxiu had been a king standing at the pinnacle of the "Path of the Flaming Sword."

In the medieval era, he would even have been hailed as an angel.

Yet such a ninth-rank powerhouse had joined forces with two other apostles, plotting for decades, even centuries, exhausting every scheme and betraying Hell's allies—all to seize godhood.

And in the end, this was how he had fallen!

"The struggle between those in high places is far more ruthless and brutal than you imagine, Gilan."

The old gentleman looked at his student and spoke slowly.

"Surely, when the 'Spirit King' first conceived the thought of ascending to godhood, He had already anticipated such an outcome... He was simply confident enough, certain enough."

"Would one who sought great deeds fear death? He merely lost, that was all."

"There was nothing wrong with His plan. The 'Eclipse Society' did draw the Empire's attention, while the 'Crescent Moon Society' behind it kept me running ragged, leaving me no time to attend to anything else... In the more secretive struggles at higher levels, the Poet's apostles and the metamorphs also successfully tied down our forces. Both sides' allies confronted one another, giving Him such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

"But there was one thing He failed to account for—you!"

A smile appeared on Paracelsus's face.

"After all, who could have imagined that an ordinary young man of the Empire would rise from a flesh-and-blood mortal to the pinnacle of the mortal world in less than a year?"

"Not only the 'Spirit King'—even the Hour-Gods seated upon the supreme thrones never foresaw it!"

"It was precisely because of you, the greatest variable, that the course of this