Chapter 66: Collapse

"You cannot kill me."

Feron looked earnestly at the man before him. His tone was not a plea, but a statement, as if the very act of killing him would be an unforgivable sin for this man. Even though blood still dripped from the hem of the man’s garment, and the face concealed behind the mask stared at him with icy indifference.

He remembered that the last time he found himself in such a predicament, he had still been a thief, flitting through the city’s alleys in the deep hours of night, following his mentor to “collect” the excess possessions of others.

“Little Feron, look at this wallet. Ah, listen to these delightful coins jingling inside—do you think their owner could ever spend them all? Of course not. Let us lighten his burden a bit,” his mentor would say, righteously pocketing the loot. Back then, Feron had believed his mentor to be a hero, for the money they took was always shared with the destitute women shivering in the cold, though those women would disappear with his mentor for ten or fifteen minutes at a time.

But when they returned, arms around each other, their faces bore looks of satisfaction. Feron imagined they had found solace in their souls.

His favorite book in those days was a battered translation from the land of Summer, recounting the tales of 108 outlaws. They robbed the rich to aid the poor, they rebelled against darkness. Though their endings were tragic, nothing could stifle Feron’s longing to join their ranks.

Summer’s culture, it seemed, was deep and prescient, foreseeing that such heroes rarely meet good ends. In the end, Feron’s mentor had his hands and feet broken by a wallet’s vengeful owner and was tossed into a slum’s corner. The police merely glanced at the scene, confiscated every coin from his mentor, and then cheerfully went off to “look after” the women on the roadside.

With his childish skills, Feron could barely feed himself and his mentor, and in the end, three of his own fingers were severed.

So his mentor left, on a snowy winter’s night, cursing and railing at the world in a feverish delirium, until a final breath failed him and he died with neither peace nor dignity.

“Feron, damn you, Feron—survive in this filthy, hell-bound country,” his mentor had said.

Though the man had often beaten him and skimmed off his share of the take, he was Feron’s only family.

A cold, metallic chill rose from Feron’s heart to his throat, tightening like a noose. Each word he spoke became the utterance of a god, compelling all who heard to kneel in adoration.

Feron did not become a hero; he became a god.

“Sinners must burn in the flames, sinners must repent in the flames, sinners must be reborn in the flames.”

He watched the wallet’s owner, saw the man pour gasoline over himself with gratitude, kneel, and die—never to rise again as Feron had declared.

The fierce light of the flames illuminated the city by night; countless charred figures knelt devoutly before Feron, but none of them ever stood again.

“This world is filthy. They do not wish to return,” Feron murmured.

From the fire, a young man walked toward him. Feron’s words seemed powerless against this newcomer—wind, rain, fire, lightning, none could so much as mar him.

“Only by purifying this world, burning all to white salt, will milk and honey flow once more through the rivers, and the souls of the dead sail back to the living—including your mentor.”

The man spoke serenely, white blossoms drifting from the heavens to rest upon his shoulders—petals born of the anguished cries of souls, the ashes of the dead.

Yes, his mentor had been irascible, quick to anger, fond of drink and lewd jokes, deserving of damnation and punishment for his sins. Yet Feron still hoped for his return.

So he took the man’s proffered hand and, to this day, never let go.

“You cannot kill me.”

Feron repeated himself calmly. The air, sunlight, moisture—all seemed to turn against Mu Yu, barring his advance.

“This world is filthy, and so are its people. I do not blame you for killing them.”

He gazed at the scattered corpses nearby. Mu Yu’s violence had been extreme, not just because they were cultists, but because, in the shadows, he had seen countless children’s bones.

“Is that why you killed those children?” came a deep voice from beneath the hood. Even through the mask, Feron could hear the man’s fury.

“This world is filthy. I was saving them.”

Feron’s face remained expressionless, his robe, gilded and resplendent, glittered in the firelight, but his eyes outshone all—brimming with compassion and faith.

My heart and soul are as clear as a mirror; all I do is righteous.

He believed, with unshakable certainty, that all his deeds were just, that slaughter was only a means of purification, that the children’s souls now reveled in lands of milk and honey.

He believed these children would not end up as broken and lost as he had.

The ground trembled, as if bowing to Feron’s will, splitting inch by inch. Steel bars in the walls bent and snapped, followed by the collapse of the entire building. It was as though all creation was prostrating before its god, confessing its sins.

Only one masked figure stood upright amidst the swirling dust, spine straight, eyes locked with the divine.

Mu Yu felt as if his very flesh was peeling away, restless and uneasy, as if his own body loathed him and wished to abandon the will that defied the divine.

Yet he pressed forward, step by slow step, though his heartbeat slackened, muscles stiffened, and lungs ceased to draw breath.

God created man—from clay, crafted his body; from flesh and blood, carved rivers; from skulls, built mountains. All things of man belong to God, all things must bow to faith.

But not all.

From the clay idol springs consciousness—unique to humankind, never yielding.

There will always be those among the living who dare face the wrath of the divine.

Bang!

The battered door burst open. Crimson hair fluttered in the air like the sudden bloom of a flower on the other shore, followed by the flash of a blade, fierce and bright.

Feron whirled around, a flicker of surprise crossing his calm face at last. But the blade never reached him—falling, powerless, to the floor.

But that was enough. The shrill scream of metal scraping air pierced the silence behind Feron; a golden lamppost shattered mid-swing, fragments enveloping his body. Blood mist exploded, filling the room.

“Hah—I just wanted to kill you, no need for all this talk,” Mu Yu muttered, flexing his right hand. While his entire body was strained to its limits, this prosthetic arm moved freely.

But now was not the time to dwell on that. Mu Yu strode forward, hefted the fallen figure onto his shoulder, and tried to escape. Yet, after their joint destruction, the building finally collapsed in a thunderous crash.

“Captain, are you alright?”

Chen Lan crawled from beneath the rubble, brushing aside slabs of stone. The blue aura swirling around him was now nearly invisible, a sign that his strength was spent.

“What the hell was that crazy woman doing inside? How did the whole building come down?” Chen Lan sighed in relief as Su Qingfeng emerged from the dust, sword in hand, but began complaining at once.

“Watch your mouth,” Su Qingfeng admonished, pressing a hand to his earpiece. He and Chen Lan had been preparing to break in, but the building collapsed before they could even enter, nearly burying them alive.

“Headquarters, the situation has changed. The cult stronghold has collapsed. A member of the medical team is trapped and needs rescue.”

“Understood. Heavy equipment will take time to deploy. Ensure your own safety first.”

Su Qingfeng sighed. Such a collapse—few, even among the gifted, could survive. Not everyone had Chen Lan’s powers to shield themselves. And as for the medical team...

Frankly, if news of that woman’s death reached the academy, few would mourn, and some might even secretly rejoice. Yet, watching life ebb away before his eyes, Su Qingfeng felt a vague discomfort.

“Captain, what are you waiting for? Come help,” Chen Lan called, snapping Su Qingfeng from his thoughts. He saw his usually unflappable teammate struggling to shift a slab of stone.

“What on earth is this thing made of? Why is it so heavy?”

...

“What the hell are these walls made of? Why are they so heavy?” Mu Yu’s back throbbed with pain as if it might split open. Xiao Bai braced itself on either side, barely creating a pocket of space. The cost, though, was his own weakening endurance.

Weight that would once have been trivial now became deadly. Mu Yu could feel the bones in his spine groaning, beginning to crack.

The crimson-haired figure was curled up in a ball beneath him.

Had he been alone, Mu Yu would have shrugged off the collapse. He might even have had time to retrieve the case Mo Yan had entrusted to him. But the woman beneath him was too grievously wounded.

When Mu Yu hoisted her up, he immediately sensed something was wrong. Her bones felt as if they had all been shattered, her body limp as mud, blood soaking her clothes and staining the ground crimson.

Wounds like these—no ordinary person could have lasted this long. Most would have died a dozen times over. Yet still, the woman stubbornly clung to life, her ragged breaths giving Mu Yu pause; he couldn’t just leave her here.

If she died, he’d leave. Ten minutes ago, that’s what Mu Yu had decided. Judging by her state, death seemed the most likely outcome in the next moment.