Chapter 1

A strong smell of herbs permeated the room.

No, not permeated, but instantly appeared in the senses—as if the intense aroma had been filling the entire space for who knew how long, but this fact had been shielded from reality, and only now, as the old caretaker spoke, did this ubiquitous scent suddenly reveal its existence to the uninvited guests!

The two men in black reacted almost instantly. The shorter man abruptly raised his hand and pointed at the old caretaker standing by the stove, a low, hoarse cry escaping his throat, as if two voices were layered together. The other quickly pulled out several pieces of paper with a dirty texture from his chest, throwing them into the air.

The low, hoarse cry turned into a vaguely visible ripple, covering the space around the old caretaker like an explosion. The pieces of paper split into countless silhouette fragments, instantly transforming into countless poisonous black insects and scorpions that crawled towards the stove, making a disgusting rustling sound.

The old caretaker, hunched over, watched the sinister attacks rushing towards him without any intention of dodging.

The shockwave tore apart the shelf next to the stove, smashing all the bottles and jars in a tremendous crash, and extinguishing the flames in the stove, which were emitting a strong herbal scent. The swarming poisonous insects and scorpions crawled onto the old man's body, frantically gnawing at his limbs and flesh.

The old caretaker was almost instantly devoured by these attacks, his hunched, aged body collapsing on the ground, turning into a pile of bloody mess and tattered clothing.

All of this happened in a matter of seconds. Only when the caretaker fell to the ground, the embers still glowing in the stove, did the two white-robed women exchange a relieved glance.

Both of them wore the same puzzled expression.

"The aura of demons—now I know who you are. So you are two Annihilation cultists. Your disguise is good, it fooled my eyes, but not my intuition," the old caretaker continued, "Why are you here? What do you want?"

But the expected death did not come.

The sudden voice startled the two white-robed women, intensifying the fear that was already rising within them. This fear often turned into impotent rage—the shorter woman abandoned her attempt to push open the door and shouted into the air, "I don't care where you're hiding!"

The Annihilation cultist looked up in surprise, staring at her companion not far away, only to see that this figure had fallen to the ground, a huge hole in his back, blood already drained away.

What about herself?

Knowing that there was no hope, and with his own strength unable to fight the graveyard keeper, the cultist chose to sacrifice his heart to the Lord of the Abyss, fully releasing the power he had gained in the "symbiotic pact" for a final desperate struggle.

The old man narrowed his eyes. In his vision, there was a pale and dim outline standing outside the door, surrounded by distorted and chaotic lights and shadows, but he couldn't see what it was. The old caretaker slowly raised his shotgun, aiming at the vague outline outside the door through the wood.

Knocking came patiently from the other side of the door. "Another deathbed hallucination, fear and anger are amplified, creating a strong sense of powerlessness, often making you feel like you are omnipotent, even about to successfully reverse life and death—but that illusion often dissipates in a very short moment, then you fall into even greater fear..."

"That's it?" The taller woman looked at the wreckage on the ground in disbelief, asking her companion in confusion, "These graveyard keepers, so strange in legends... are they this easy to deal with? Or is this old man the weakest of the keepers?"

A strange aura approached.

His trusty old double-barreled shotgun lay by his side, and the surrounding area was littered with traces of the brief struggle.

He didn't even feel his own heart.

The door... opened on its own.

A dazzling and distorted starlight rushed towards them.

But before he could pull the trigger, a slight clicking sound suddenly reached his ears.

He came to the door and was about to open it when his movements suddenly stopped.

"The Holy Lord grants us courage and pure essence!" The shorter woman shouted, forcibly suppressing the fear in her heart with her faith in the Lord of the Abyss, gradually falling into a kind of sacrificial frenzy, "You stupid mortal imitations can be proud! You can only be proud for a moment!"

But he found nothing. The shockwave tore through everything in the room, stirring up the air, but did not force out the caretaker's figure.

An aged voice echoed in the hut. For some reason, the two white-robed women suddenly felt that the voice seemed to become erratic, sometimes near, sometimes far, like light and shadow through a curtain.

A red-hot fire poker was brutally inserted between her chest and abdomen, the flesh sizzling where the poker made contact.

"Dong, dong, dong—"

The cultist muttered something, his head tilted, and he died completely.

After speaking, the cultist suddenly pulled out a jet-black dagger from his chest, then unhesitatingly stabbed the dagger into his own heart!

"Open the door, please." A polite voice came from outside the door.

As the voice fell, layers of illusory ripples appeared around him, and in the ripples, a beautiful bird-like monster could be vaguely seen standing on his shoulder, stretching its neck and screaming—this was a "Death Bird" demon.

The old man did not speak, just stared intently at the dark, old wooden door.

She hadn't guessed the caretaker's trick—it was an illusion.

The caretaker used the dual effects of supernatural power and herbs to hide himself, making a show of being a ghost in this hut. But since his voice was still here, it meant that he was just hiding nearby. As long as the entire house was swept, the old man would eventually reveal himself. The screams of the abyssal demon and the shouts of the tall woman overlapped, and the translucent shockwave instantly swept across the entire room!

The shorter woman did not dare to relax at all. She still stared at the place where the old caretaker had been standing, while quickly scanning the small hut with the corner of her eye, her brow furrowing slightly, "Strange... I don't smell it... the herbal smell is getting stronger? It's like someone is lighting incense next door... No! Get out of here!"

The tall Annihilation cultist lowered her head and saw that she was actually sitting in a chair in the center of the room.

"The deathbed hallucination is over, may your souls dissipate, with neither blessings nor suffering."

A look of vigilance instantly appeared in the old man's eyes, and he suddenly gripped the shotgun in his hand.

The next second, a knock came from the other side of the door.

A hallucination caused by burning some potent hallucinogen.

"So that's how it is... a person can't... die twice..."

In the last few seconds as his vision rapidly darkened and his mind gradually became chaotic and confused, he recognized that this was a terrible wound caused by a shotgun fired at close range—his companion had already died, killed by the old caretaker with a shot from behind the moment he stepped into the hut.

She didn't feel the sharp pain she should have when the dagger pierced her body.

What is that?!

On this cold and quiet winter night, the sudden knock sounded almost jarring.

The shorter woman seemed to suddenly understand something and instantly rushed towards the wooden door of the hut, but when she reached out and pushed the door, she found that it was as unyielding as a wall, the seemingly strong wooden board feeling like cast iron.

"Really useless... Two heretics caused so much trouble, and in the end, they didn't even ask anything," the old caretaker muttered, stepping over the tall corpse lying on the floor and the other corpse on the chair, carrying his shotgun towards the wooden door of the hut, "There are still two troubles outside, hopefully there is still time."

"The Holy Lord grants me power beyond life and death!"

The old man gasped a few times in the chair, regaining some strength, then reached out and grabbed the shotgun beside him, supporting his knees as he sat up from the chair.

Not a living person—but definitely not a dead person either.

He recalled that he had been defeated in a short and quiet fight, killed by a fire poker—just ten seconds ago.

An old and sinister voice echoed in the hut, "One of the deathbed hallucinations, believing that you are trapped in a room, and the passage to leave the room is right in front of you, trying to pass through this passage, but unable to find the correct way to open the door."

There was no living person outside the door.

In another chair across the room, the old caretaker with a clear temperament quietly looked at the cultist who hadn't completely died, muttering expressionlessly.

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96.

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