Chapter 167: Chapter 171: A Crossroads in History
The figure was very tall, even taller than Judge Bifana. The figure was extremely thin, as if what was wrapped under the heavy, dark overcoat were just withered flesh and blood. He was holding a large umbrella inside this sealed room, and the lowered surface of the umbrella obscured the face of the uninvited guest—however, it only took one look for the old priest to spot the blasphemous and twisted shadows on the other’s body.
“Remnants of the Black Sun?” the old man exclaimed in astonishment as he looked at the figure, followed by an angry shout, “You dare to step into this holy archive!”
The next second, a loud bang shattered the tranquility of the archive, and the old priest had already drawn the large-caliber revolver from his waist. The blessed bullets, carrying firelight and thunder, were fired, but perhaps the old man’s limbs were too slow, for before the sound of the gunshot, the figure had already moved—two shadows shot out from under the hem of his coat, one intercepting the bullet mid-air, and the other shadow instantly covered a distance of ten meters, striking the old priest’s shoulder.
A grating sound of metal friction rang out, and the old priest’s body was thrown sideways, crashing into a nearby bookshelf. The huge bookshelf shook violently, and countless books and scrolls fell to the ground.
The strange, umbrella-carrying shadow stepped forward, walking towards the direction where the old priest had fallen. A low and chaotic murmuring came from within its body, sounding like filthy flesh boiling in a pot.
However, the next second, a roar erupted from the pile of collapsed books, and soon after, the old priest leapt out—his hand now held a sharp steel longsword, which emitted a sharp whistling as it swiftly slashed towards the figure invading the archive.
The invader suddenly halted, and the black umbrella tilted slightly to block the fierce blow. Sparks flew between the sword and the ribs of the umbrella, followed by the old priest landing and continuing his assault without pause. The longsword turned in an arc and then slashed at an angle towards the side of the invader!
The longsword spun, metal clashing against metal, and the old man’s mechanical limbs let out a low, hoarse roar. The storm swordsmanship, honed over decades, unleashed its power after many years of silence, as continuous as the unending waves at sea. A slew of circular cuts cascaded towards the blasphemous enemy. Amidst the arcs cut by the longsword, layers of phantom waves could be seen taking shape—these ethereal waves grew more tangible and weighty, eventually showing the impact and might of real ocean waves!
The Storm Goddess’s power surged within the endless arc cuts, the heavy pressure of the waves pouring into the specially forged steel longsword. Each slash carried the salty sea breeze and made the air and ground around tremble slightly.
The black umbrella in the invader’s hand was exceptionally sturdy. Despite more than ten slashes, it remained unshaken. However, the figure itself was steadily retreating, gradually pushed back to the edge of a nearby bookshelf by the relentless wave assaults, and an irritated growl mixed with murmuring, filled with bewitching power, emitted from within.
But the old priest had long closed off all unnecessary perceptions, completely ignoring the noise from the invader. He knew his attacks could not stop. Storm swordsmanship required this ceaseless pressure. Like waves that cannot halt halfway, the strength of these remnants, cleaved from the Scions of the Sun, should not be underestimated. If his own pressuring ceased, the enemy would escape the fray the next second.
Meanwhile, the old priest was filled with suspicion—how had this blasphemous residue infiltrated the archive? This church, imbued with the goddess’s power and countless layers of defenses, from the inside out, not even the Scions of the Sun themselves would breach it unnoticed—how then had an invader escaped detection?
Could it be… this residue did not enter through the normal structure of time and space?
Just then, a sharp sound of something tearing through the air suddenly arose. The old priest’s muscles instantly tensed up, and this seasoned warrior instantly reacted without stopping his sword but subtly adjusting its angle, ready to meet the invader’s sneak attack.
Agony shot up from beneath his ribs.
The continuous flashes of sword light stopped, and the old priest gazed in shock at the tentacle that had pierced his body, watching as blood slowly dripped from the tattered edges of his clothes. The brass prosthetic emitted intense heat, and the heavily worn and rusted gears made one last clattering noise, grinding to a halt with squeaks and creaks.
Another second passed before the old priest realized what had happened—he had grown old.
He and the gears on his body had aged.
With a revolting noise, the hideous tentacle slowly retracted back into the clothes of the invader. This unearthly being slowly approached the old man, who was now propped up by his longsword, desperately trying not to fall. It set down its black umbrella, revealing a continuously swelling and deforming “head” that resembled a blooming flower of flesh. A hoarse voice emitted from its “petals.”
It was a barely discernible universal language:
“Go tell your god, this ugly age is over. The sun will rise again from history…”
“History…” the old priest’s body trembled. He had not yet succumbed, but no longer had the strength to lift his sword. Suddenly, realization dawned on him, “You’ve tampered with history?!”
The invader seemed to laugh, though it was merely a blossoming flower of flesh. Its quivering “petals” and disordered teeth seemed to convey a semblance of mirth, “On the day the great fire was kindled, everyone’s wishes were fulfilled.”
The elderly priest slowly bowed his head, as life swiftly faded from his aged body. It seemed he finally gave up his struggle in this world and began to wait serenely for the final moment’s arrival.
The invader appeared rather bored by this outcome and reopened its umbrella, ready to depart.
However, in the next second, a roaring noise of metal friction suddenly erupted as the previously still mechanical limb came to life again with the sound of gears turning and oil pumps pressurizing. Taken aback, the invader turned its head, only to see a flash of the sword rapidly striking.
“Please bear witness!”
The elderly priest let out a fierce roar as the steel longsword, without any hesitation, chopped at the invader’s body—with no umbrella to block it, no tentacles to interrupt, the force of the entire blade nearly tore through the enemy’s body like ripping open a piece of torn fabric.
The invader was split in two by the sword, its severed body parts falling to the ground.
Yet in the next second, both halves of the cut body began emitting foul sounds of flesh wriggling, as countless tiny fleshy tendrils sprouted from within, beginning to gravitate towards each other and reassemble.
The invader began to reshape itself, and an angry growl emanated from within it.
But the elderly priest had already lowered his sword tip and his body slowly collapsed to the ground, his clouded eyes watching as the invader steadily rose again, a smile of relief appearing on his face.
He knew that even his last bit of strength couldn’t kill the monster—for it was the remnants of the Scions of the Sun, far beyond what a dying, aged guardian could contend with using just a steel sword. But at least, he had proven his loyalty to the goddess in his final moments.
The Storm had borne witness, it was time to end.
The invader got up again, and in its irritation, tendrils filled with contaminated power spread from its body, their edges bristling with sharp teeth.
However, in the elderly priest’s vision, he saw a great fire ignited behind the invader, a great fire engulfed the archive, the entire church burning fiercely.
The goddess’s statue collapsed in the distance with a thunderous crash.
An image of Prand consumed entirely by flames emerged before him, a history branch where “the Sun Shard had descended successfully, and the guardians of Prand were completely annihilated” appeared before his eyes.
The old man’s consciousness slowly sank into this contaminated and created history branch, yet suddenly, his peripheral vision caught a glimpse of something else.
A clump of ghostly green flames was spreading surreptitiously within the blazing inferno, flitting through the cracks between light and shadow, through the fiery illusions, dividing and flowing everywhere.
Behind a collapsed bookshelf nearby, a clump of ghostly green flames seemed to suddenly “sniff” out something, and in an instant, darted over like a hound that had found its prey, viciously pouncing on the invader preparing to strike its final blow.
The elderly priest watched all this in a haze, his consciousness floating between reality and fantasy, unable to discern whether what he was seeing was real or an illusion. He saw the invader suddenly enveloped by the green flame, the body containing the power of the Scions of the Sun melted away as if made of wax, and he heard the invader’s dying screams echoing throughout the archive, filled with unbelievable madness and terror.
Then, all became silent.
The sea of fire receded, the contaminated history temporarily retreated into the depths behind the veil, and the archive, situated between two branches of history, fell into a deadly silence, unvisited and forgotten.
Only an old man who had died in battle with a sword lay quietly on the ground, his half-open, half-closed eyes gazing into the distance—one reflecting the Prand that had survived in peace, the other the history branch of the Sun’s destruction.
And he belonged to neither—he hadn’t perished in that great fire, nor had he survived it.
The slowly cooling blood flowed out from under the elderly priest’s body as if directed by a powerful will, quietly coursing over the ground and coalescing into a trail of footprints that stretched slowly towards the nearby caretaker’s console…