Paper-Slip Formation Collapse Technique

News of the conflict between Gregory and Vladimir's two dioceses reached Ralte in a steady stream through the high-speed channels established by the Lackeys.

Lorgar stood on the observation platform of the governor's hall, gazing northward, toward where the flames of war had risen. His violet eyes no longer held only the desire to fight or compassion; an unprecedented, profound understanding and shock churned within them.

He saw it.

He saw Gregory's once well-equipped and imposing "indulgence army" fail to display the crushing momentum it should have after invading Vladimir's Red Rock diocese. Instead, the army's morale was extraordinarily strange. The soldiers' eyes darted as they charged, yet they became exceptionally vicious while looting, as though they wanted to stuff every scrap of wealth they could seize into their packs to fill the immense panic deep within them over the collapse in value of those thin slips of paper. The officers, meanwhile, all had their own calculations. Some were desperate to redeem their spoils with the Holy See, while others had begun secretly contacting Vladimir's people.

A war that should have been a "holy crusade against rebellion" had utterly devolved into banditry driven by profit. Faith's outer garment had been stripped away, exposing nothing but the skeleton of calculation beneath.

"Father... is this the power of the 'market' you spoke of?" Lorgar's voice was low, carrying a faint, barely perceptible tremor. He recalled Zhou Beichen's words about "investment," "bubbles," and "short selling." Those terms, which he had once found too cold and lacking in holiness, now seemed like invisible giant hands stirring the winds and clouds in the distant north, effortlessly causing a massive army to rot from within and spiral out of control.

He understood. This power did not rely on spiritual energy or divine revelation. It was rooted in humanity's deepest desires and fears. It could gather grains of sand into a tower, and it could topple that tower in an instant. It was more intangible than blades, yet sharper than blades.

For the "Capital Jia" his father had half-jokingly hoped he would become, Lorgar no longer felt complete rejection for the first time. He began to realize that mastering such power might... also be a way to establish order. A way different from the one he had originally envisioned, based purely on faith and holy law, yet perhaps more efficient and more pervasive.

As Lorgar's heart underwent a violent storm, the battle situation in the north changed drastically as well.

Gregory's days were exceedingly difficult. Vladimir had clearly been prepared, using the terrain and fortified strongholds to resist him at every step and continuously wear down his forces. Dissatisfaction within the army was also mounting by the day—the wealth the soldiers had seized needed to be redeemed, casualties required compensation, and more importantly, they had lost their last shred of patience with the indulgence certificates issued as military pay, which increasingly resembled wastepaper. The risk of mutiny hung over Gregory's head like the Sword of Damocles.

"We can't drag this out any longer! We have to break the deadlock!" In the temple, Gregory's eyes were bloodshot and he looked half-mad as he roared at the remaining generals who were still somewhat loyal to him. "That old fox Vladimir is stalling for time! We must find a new opening and seize enough spoils to stabilize the army's morale!"

His gaze turned south on the map, toward the original source of all this chaos—Earthly Heaven and Ralte. There were rumored to be stores of grain, workshops, and... that false divine son!

A mad plan took shape in his mind.

"Send the order!" Gregory howled, his voice distorted by excitement. "Use all our stock of... no, immediately print a new batch of the highest-denomination Special Indulgence Certificates for the Holy Expedition! They will serve as special military pay and compensation vouchers for this southern campaign against the heretics! Tell the soldiers that once Ralte falls, the wealth inside will be used first to redeem these special certificates! This is the final and greatest chance for salvation and wealth bestowed upon us by the Father God!"

He was drinking poison to quench his thirst, using an even greater bubble to conceal the old bubble that was about to burst. But with the arrow already on the string, he had no other choice.

A batch of "special indulgence certificates," smelling of fresh ink and bearing even more elaborate patterns and astonishing denominations, was urgently printed and distributed to every soldier. Gregory stood atop a hastily erected platform and made his final mobilization speech at the top of his lungs. He painted Ralte as a sinful city flowing with milk and honey and piled with gold, defining this southern campaign as their last desperate gamble for ultimate wealth and glory.

Worn out by internal strife and Vladimir's resistance, the army temporarily suppressed its internal conflicts under the stimulus of this powerful stimulant aimed at an external target. A mood mingling despair, greed, and final madness spread through the ranks. Tens of thousands of troops, like wounded beasts driven into a corner, dragged their heavy steps, filled with inexplicable fury and avarice, turned southward and rolled toward Ralte like a muddy landslide.

The Lackeys sent news of Gregory's army's unusual movement back at the fastest speed. Zhou Beichen looked over the intelligence report without the slightest surprise on his face, only a cold, mocking expression that said, Just as expected.

"At the end of his rope, a dog will jump over a wall," he remarked calmly. "Fine. Saves us the trouble of going after them."

He did not order the city gates shut or command the defenders to prepare for battle. Instead, he made a series of baffling arrangements.

When Gregory's army, their clothes somewhat ragged but their morale exceptionally fevered, finally caught sight of Ralte's not particularly imposing walls after days of marching, what they saw was not the defensive formation they had expected.

On an open stretch of high ground before the walls, deliberately cleared for the purpose, stood only two people.

One was Lorgar, dressed in a plain gray robe, his massive frame as solid as a mountain and his violet eyes calm and undisturbed.

The other was Zhou Beichen, wearing a slightly oversized priest's robe and bearing an almost leisurely expression.

Behind them stood no vast army, only several large carts covered with tarps.

Gregory's army halted some distance from the walls, its formation somewhat disorderly. The soldiers looked at the strange pair ahead, then at the brand-new "special indulgence certificates" in their hands, which seemed to carry all their hopes, and grew restless.

Gregory sat atop a towering Sand Beast, staring at Zhou Beichen and Lorgar with flames of hatred and greed burning in his eyes. He drew his sword, pointed it at them, and screamed with all his strength, "Heretics! False gods! Today is the day you die! Warriors of the holy war! For the Father God! For the indulgence certificates in your hands! Charge! Crush them! Take everything that belongs to you!"

Yet the expected tidal charge did not come at once. The soldiers looked at the composed Lorgar ahead and instinctively felt a trace of fear. Zhou Beichen's overly calm expression made their hearts prickle with inexplicable unease.

At that eerie standoff, Zhou Beichen moved.

He did not draw a gun, chant a spell, or even assume a defensive stance. He merely walked forward a few steps to one of the carts and grabbed a corner of the tarp.

Then, before tens of thousands of eyes, he violently tore the tarp away!

Under the sunlight, what met their eyes was not weapons or treasure, but... mountains of paper!

They were countless bundles of paper certificates, nearly identical in color and pattern to the "special indulgence certificates" clenched in the soldiers' hands, but so numerous that they made one's scalp tingle! They formed a small mountain, reflecting a dazzling glare beneath the sun.

The entire battlefield instantly fell silent. Only the faint rustling of wind brushing the edges of the paper pile could be heard.

The madness on Gregory's face froze, turning into utter astonishment and confusion. His generals, his soldiers, everyone stared wide-eyed at that mountain of paper, their minds blank.

Zhou Beichen casually grabbed a large handful of indulgence certificates from the paper mountain, as though they were worthless sand. Facing the dense black formation of enemy troops, he revealed an almost compassionate smile that carried endless mockery.

His voice was not loud, yet it spread clearly across the silent battlefield like an icy awl stabbing into every soldier's heart:

"Warriors? This is the... wealth? Faith? You're risking your lives and charging for?"

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the stunned faces, then made a gesture that none of them would ever forget.

He suddenly flung both arms upward, hurling the handful of indulgence certificates into the sky and toward the enemy formation with all his strength!

"Take them!"

"This is what you want!"

"I have plenty!"

White slips of paper bearing sacred patterns scattered through the air like an absurd blizzard. Caught by the wind, some drifted toward the enemy formation, landing on soldiers' helmets, shoulders, and hands—the hands that tightly gripped their weapons and those "precious" military-pay certificates.

The silence broke.

But it was not broken by the roar of a charge. It was broken by the sound of something completely shattering deep within their hearts.

The soldiers stared at the identical paper certificates falling from the sky, at the mountain of seemingly endless "wealth" behind Zhou Beichen, then at the slips of paper in their own hands, which they had placed all their hopes upon and regarded as their very lives...

Faith? Wealth? The future?

At this moment, it all became a ridiculous illusion.

"Fake... it's all fake..."

"We were deceived!"

"Gregory deceived us!"

Desperate wails, furious roars, and the clang of weapons falling to the ground instantly replaced the will to fight. The formation completely collapsed! The soldiers no longer looked toward Ralte or heeded their commanders' hoarse shouts. They crashed about like headless flies. Some scrambled to snatch the falling slips of paper, while others turned their anger on the officers beside them, even beginning to fight one another over the few genuine valuables they had looted earlier.

Gregory's army had not loosed a single arrow or crossed a single blade, yet it disintegrated in this storm of paper, collapsing utterly from within. Gregory himself stood dumbly atop the Sand Beast, staring at the incomprehensible chaos before him. His face was pale as paper, his lips trembled, and he could not utter a word. He was finished. His army was finished. Everything he had was finished.

Yet this farce did not end there.

Just as Gregory's legion descended into utter chaos, like lambs awaiting slaughter, a low and majestic horn suddenly sounded from the battlefield's flank! A great banner embroidered with Vladimir's family crest—crossed Iron Hammers and scripture scrolls—appeared in full view!

A fresh force, fully equipped and high in morale, surged into the battlefield from the flank like a cheetah that had lain in wait for a long time! They did not attack the chaotic routed soldiers. Instead, with a clear objective, they stabbed like a sword straight toward the core of Gregory's central command!

"Brother Gregory! Hold on! Vladimir has come to your aid!" A loud voice full of "righteousness" rang out.

The one leading this "relief force" was Archbishop Vladimir himself! He wore magnificent battle-priest robes and held a mace symbolizing authority, his face bearing an expression of compassionate sorrow mixed with resolute decisiveness.

After a brief moment of shock, a flash of ecstatic relief appeared in Gregory's eyes. He had just opened his mouth to say something—

But Vladimir charged close without stopping. The mace in his hand cut through the air with a shrill whistle. Rather than smashing it toward the surrounding "heretics" or fleeing soldiers, he swung it at Gregory's skull with lightning speed!

Splat!

A dull impact rang out, mixed with the sound of bones shattering and brains splattering. The wild joy on Gregory's face froze instantly, replaced by extreme shock and disbelief. His obese body swayed, then toppled heavily from the Sand Beast's back, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Vladimir withdrew his bloodied mace, and the compassionate expression on his face instantly became cold authority and solemnity. He raised his weapon high, his voice rolling across the battlefield like thunder:

"Warriors of the Covenant Church! See clearly! Gregory, the criminal who betrayed the faith, abused the Father God's grace, printed counterfeit certificates, and threw the Holy See into chaos, has been executed on the spot by me—Vladimir—under the will of the Father God!"

His gaze swept over Gregory's stunned remnants, and his tone became "grief-stricken" and "inspiring." "You were all deceived by him; this is not your fault! Lay down your weapons and return to the Father God's embrace! I, Vladimir, will lead you to continue the holy war to purge heresy, and avenge Brother Gregory...!"

After this grandiose speech, Vladimir's troops swiftly began "gathering up" Gregory's leaderless and bewildered remnants, along with... conveniently "taking over" everything they carried that could still be called supplies.

From beginning to end, neither Vladimir nor his troops so much as glanced toward Ralte's walls, or at Zhou Beichen and Lorgar on the high ground. It was as though they had merely happened to pass through and carry out a "holy mission" to purge their own ranks.

Once everything was done, Vladimir led the absorbed troops and seized supplies away like a victor, turning around and withdrawing in grand procession. He had arrived suddenly and departed just as cleanly.

All that remained on the battlefield were scraps of wastepaper drifting through the air, scattered equipment, and Gregory's gradually cooling corpse.

A crisis that had seemed certain to be fatal vanished in such an absurd, comical manner, yet one that carried a cold sense of reality.

Zhou Beichen patted nonexistent dust from his hands, looked at the dust cloud trailing Vladimir's departing troops, and snorted. "The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind it. That old fox really knows how to calculate."

Lorgar silently watched the devastated battlefield, watching those scraps of paper that symbolized the simultaneous collapse of faith and wealth. For a long time, he said nothing. The shock in his heart was far greater than if he had witnessed thousands upon thousands of soldiers charging into battle.

He looked once again at his father beside him, the man who always seemed able to resolve crises in unexpected ways.

Capital... Jia?

It was as though he saw a river hidden beneath flashing blades and sacred doctrine, deeper, more magnificent, and more... dangerous. And his father stood on its bank, showing him the vessel with which to navigate that river.