Chapter 14 The Sacrifice and the Tip-Off

And so, the Annihilation cultists began to pray. In the dim light of the oil lamps, in the deathly stagnant atmosphere, within this deep, cold ritual site, under the gaze of the Abyssal Saint.

A deranged and reckless member had brought the indelible shadow to this ritual site. From this moment forward, anyone who left the site could carry that shadow to their brethren, just as had already happened. Therefore, they would not leave here again—under the witness and encouragement of the emissary, these devout and fanatical cultists would choose a peaceful and loyal sacrifice.

They had resolved to take the secrets they held to the Lord's kingdom, revealing not a shred to the specter.

At least, that was what they had decided for now—temporal courage was always easy to muster.

The cultists prayed in silence, incessantly invoking the blessings of the Abyssal Saint within the chamber, while the emissary sat quietly at the round table, his gaze calmly surveying every face in the room, observing these individuals' steadfastness, tension, bravery, fear, and wavering.

Time passed, no one knew for how long. The oil lamps on the table flickered, their flames wavering uncertainly. During one such flicker, some of them seemed to hear a faint voice:

". . . I will give you one chance."

Some raised their heads in terror, searching for the source of the voice, while others tightly closed their eyes, as if afraid of actually seeing something. However, the voice had already dissipated faintly into the air, as if it had never appeared at all.

"Continue to pray," the emissary said in a heavy voice, his words seemingly imbued with a bewitching power. "The specter is powerless. Apart from death, there is nothing that can threaten you more, and death itself is the quickest path to the Lord's kingdom."

“Yes, it’s in the basement of that house at the very end of the alley, the one with the blue roof. This is a tip-off letter detailing their gathering, with an unlisted bank account at the end. Please deposit the reward money directly into the account, thank you.”

“The leaders of the White Sun are also in action, but they are looking for something else. I don’t know what exactly they are looking for!”

Having served the church for many years, he was taken aback by this unprecedented… informant, and subconsciously asked, “Informant?”

In the past, the emissary's words could always inspire courage, quickly reassuring even the most uneasy leaders. But for some reason, this time every word he said only made people feel the chilling approach of terror more acutely.

A frail, collapsing, and suspiciously unstable figure walked over, a dim smile on his face. "Greetings, I wish to report heretical activity."

On the *Lost Ship*, in the captain's cabin, Duncan snapped back to his senses and exhaled a long breath.

One of the believers finally screamed. It was the frail one—as if he had suddenly seen something terrifying, he abruptly jumped up from his chair, shouting and yelling, “I’ll talk! I’ll talk! I know what’s going on!”

The emissary instantly stood up from his chair, shouting in a low voice filled with shock and anger, “Hold him down!”

“The Doomsday Preachers say the end is near, but that’s all I know… that’s all I know, Mr. Duncan. Only the prophets and saints know more, and those Doomsday Preachers, they know… I really only know that much!”

A series of chilling roars and howls resounded. Within the ritual site, one after another, Abyssal Demons appeared, constantly collapsing or struggling to break free from their chains, fleeing the world of reality. And with the disintegration or escape of these symbiotic demons, every figure in the frail cultist's eyes (including the "emissary") began to rapidly burst into flames.

“I know, I tried my best to maintain it, but it seems the method isn’t quite right. It’s only seventeen minutes more stable than usual—don’t worry, just remember to make the payment…”

The guard stared blankly at this suspicious and bizarre individual, listening to the torrent of words. Amidst the confusion, he finally couldn’t help but raise his finger and point to the individual’s face, which was constantly turning to ash and crumbling. “Sir, you don’t look very well…”

The frail figure stood silently amidst the countless white ashes. After a few seconds, he suddenly blinked and slowly returned to the round table, reaching out to take the paper and pen from the table and writing a page of things with a rustling sound.

As the frail cultist struggled, he screamed desperately. In his immense fear, he mustered another level of courage—the courage to betray his faith. But then, he desperately raised his head, looking with tears streaming down his face at the "emissary" not far away. Following his fleeting courage was a new wave of fear: "I'm sorry, I just want to live, I want to live..."

“The Doomsday Preachers gave us the information! They proclaim that the ‘Dream of the Renowned’ conceals the truth of creation, the most primal blueprint of the Saint…”

Duncan strode through the door of the basement, where the embers had not yet faded, through the dilapidated building above ground, and then his figure soared into the air amidst the flames…

“Just a cold-hearted heretic…”

But in just an instant, the bramble patch burst into flames, the ghostly green spirit fire reducing it to ashes. The small door behind the bramble patch opened with a push.

"The dream of the elves leads directly to the Dream of the Renowned! That race itself is the carrier and channel of dreams, because we were flawed in the blueprint stage..."

“I gleaned some useful information from a bunch of obscure cultists, but unfortunately, the time was too short to determine which city-state it was, and I don’t know if they have any other ritual sites in the distance,” Duncan exhaled, raising his hand to rub his brow vigorously. “But it’s not a big problem. I think we’ll be dealing with them again very soon…”

"I was just trying out a newer method of avatar control. I'm not quite used to it," Duncan waved his hand. "It seems that spiritual unity is not something to be attempted casually. Perhaps I'll have to ask Heidi for advice when I get the chance... How can she split herself into dozens at once and still be lucid?"

Agatha: “…?”

Then he screamed again: “Mr. Duncan! Please protect me! Don’t let the emissary kill me! I fulfilled my promise—you said you would give me a chance! You said… would…”

A patrolling guard stared in astonishment as a ball of ghostly green flames fell onto the street in front of him. He had just subconsciously raised the weapon in his hand when he saw a staggering figure emerge from the ball of ghostly green flames, a figure seemingly constantly collapsing and disintegrating.

An increasingly intense unease was spreading throughout the ritual site. Fear was approaching the border of reason, and wavering was gradually growing in the silence. Not everyone was the most devout saint, and for those who were not devout enough… now was the time to lose their minds.

The young guard almost dazedly accepted the tip-off letter. Before the other party completely collapsed and disintegrated, he finally remembered a question: “Sir, what’s your name?”

The last burning figure walked towards the frail cultist before collapsing, smiling as he patted him on the shoulder. “You too.”

Silence fell in the ritual site.

Around the round table, those cultists who had previously worked together to hold him down on the table also retreated one by one.

However, Duncan did not continue on that topic. He quickly frowned slightly, deliberately recalling and organizing the information he had just obtained from "afar."

The goat head on the edge of the nautical chart reacted immediately, turning his head towards him. "Ah, the magnificent Captain—it seems you've had a great harvest?"

His main consciousness returned to the ship.

The several figures around the round table immediately swarmed forward, grabbing the frail figure roughly and angrily, holding him down tightly on the table and trying to cover his mouth to prevent him from revealing the Lord's secrets—however, the frail figure erupted with astonishing resistance. He struggled violently, black chains appearing around him, and terrifying bone spurs and keratinized structures surfaced on his limbs, almost allowing him to break free from the restraints of his "comrades." At the same time, he continuously shouted:

The frail cultist's eyes widened, and he looked in horror at everyone in the ritual site. Finally, his lips trembled as he spoke: "Emissary... Duncan... Your Excellency, and Bian Chan, Bian Chan, they are all..."

Those "comrades" surrounded him, casting their gazes upon him, their faces showing slightly stiff and manic smiles, and then applauding one after another.

The guard, who was preparing to blow his whistle and rush forward with his sword, was instantly stunned.

On the wall not far away, layers of shadow fluctuated on the surface of the ancient oval mirror, and Agatha's figure emerged from the mirror, curiously looking at Bian Chan. "Are you alright? You seem a little tired?"

He widened his eyes, watching as the emissary slowly propped his hands on the round table, giving himself a manic smile. "You see, it's not that hard to say it."

"Dream of the Renowned..." Bian Chan raised his head in thought, looking at Agatha in the mirror and the goat head on the table. "Have you heard of that term?"

From beginning to end, only his screams echoed within the ritual site. His "comrades" held him down, but not a single one truly stopped him from shouting. The emissary was watching him, but he never truly intervened.

The light pressure on his shoulder lessened, and the frail cultist, halfway through his terrified screams, finally belatedly noticed the change in atmosphere, so he slowly stopped.

What was originally thought to be just a special dream invasion, just a strange nightmare phenomenon, the appearance of those cultists just an accident… but unexpectedly, a shadow beyond everyone’s imagination suddenly unfolded behind this incident.

Then he grabbed the piece of paper and strode to the exit of the basement—the "thorns" summoned by the emissary still tightly sealed the door, and ominous, dark power surged within the bramble patch.