Chapter 260: Patriarch: Feeling a Chill on His Neck
As he spoke these words, the Patriarch of the Iron Cross almost felt tears welling up in his eyes.
So many years had passed.
Ever since the Lord had ceased responding to the prayers of His followers, the Iron Cross Cult had nearly collapsed.
Believers within had continuously abandoned their faith and left, bringing their talents to other cults.
And from outside, the pressure was relentless. They could only eke out an existence under the oppression of human nations such as the Granwell Empire, hiding like rats in the sewers, constantly moving about the borderlands—whenever the wind grew tense on one side, they would cross into the other to avoid the storm.
Now, at last, his perseverance had been rewarded. The Lord had once again responded to the call of His most devout believer.
Farewell, prison!
…
“That Evil God who once descended upon Deep Blue Port in the Sixth Era, bringing about the Iron Cross Plague, has actually revived again…”
“And is preparing to intervene in the Present World?”
Within the Imperial Capital, staring at the scene displayed on the real-time screen, Ophelia’s expression grew more solemn, setting aside the playful banter she had earlier shared with Dean Silver.
Although the Age of Mythical Beings had withered away six entire eras ago, and the world now belonged to humankind—
One could not deny that even a dying camel was still bigger than a horse.
Those Ancient Gods who had fled to the Threshold of Seraphim after the decline of the Age of Gods, lingering on in their decay—by rank, each of them was among the oldest of angels and mythic beings.
If they truly disregarded all cost to intervene in the Present World and complete a Descent, it would surely bring about a great calamity.
The destructive power of a Descent needed only to be compared to that Sixth Era catastrophe, when the Iron Cross Plague swept across most of the Western Continent, dragging human civilization from its golden age of rapid progress into the darkness.
Of course, on the surface, Ophelia would never show the slightest trace of this.
Controlling that mechanical puppet, she nodded in agreement. “Congratulations, Your Excellency.”
“Rest assured, now that the Lord has once more responded to our faith, the Iron Cross Cult shall surely rise again.”
“By then, your Mechanical Flesh Cult will be our best ally.”
“And those old-minded heretics ought to be swept into the trash heap of history.”
Perhaps because his prayers had been answered, and he had rediscovered faith and a firm pillar of support—
The Patriarch of the Iron Cross no longer stooped his back, but stood tall and straight, even his tone of speech growing firm and powerful.
Although all of them were heretic cults suppressed by the Order Factions of the Western Continent, skulking in the shadows, the cults devoted to different Evil Gods were by no means united.
After all, the Power of Faith from cultists was limited. What one cult gained, another lost.
Thus, rivalry existed, and often, because of conflicts between their gods, many were locked in bitter enmity.
Back when the Evil God of Deep Blue Port no longer responded to its believers, and the Iron Cross Cult fell into its lowest state, it was precisely the other cults that struck hardest at them—heretics knew too well when to beat a dog that had fallen into the water.
But now, everything was entirely different.
One day, basking in the radiance of the Lord, he would lead the Iron Cross Cult to reclaim everything they had lost.
“However, before that, we must first feign harmony with the other cults for a while…”
“After all, the Imperial Princess of Granwell, Holy Sword Wielder Shiltina von Fresberg, is far too formidable. She is very likely to ascend as an Angel within a short time.”
“Even before her ascension, she has already suppressed the Church Nation’s members so harshly they can scarcely breathe, nearly eradicating all our strongholds across the Empire.”
“If she truly completes her ascension, nothing will be salvageable.”
As he said this, the Patriarch of the Iron Cross could not help but reveal a gnashing hatred in his eyes.
If not for being relentlessly pressured by the Empire, perhaps he would still be living in comfort within the Capital’s strongholds, rather than skulking like a rat at the deserted border.
“This girl must not be allowed to live. Before the Princess truly grows, she must be slain at any cost.”
“And furthermore—the First Princess of the Granwell Empire, future Empress Shiltina, has publicly declared that the Empire shall protect that Shoreguard called Rast.”
Suppressing his restlessness, the Patriarch began a rational analysis.
Ever since the incident in the Imperial Capital two years ago, and the Gravekeepers began once again to walk the world, actively contacting cultists… the enmity and ties between the Shoreguards and Gravekeepers were no longer secrets to the leaders of the cults.
Thus, as Shiltina’s betrothed, Rast, the last of the Shoreguards, had also entered the view of these hidden powers.
His few recorded actions on the Western Continent, his path of growth—all were unearthed by the intelligence networks of the factions, scrutinized under the light.
What’s more, for the Iron Cross Cult, there was personal enmity with Rast—for in the Sixth Era, the Evil God of Deep Blue Port had suffered more than once at Rast’s hands.
“Though intelligence suggests Rast now lies bedridden, half-crippled, a powerless vegetable…”
“He is still the final Shoreguard.”
“If possible, it is best to strike down Princess Shiltina while also silencing Rast, grinding his bones to dust, eradicating this potential threat entirely.”
As he uttered these words, the Patriarch of the Iron Cross uneasily twisted his neck.
He realized the leader of the Mechanical Flesh Cult opposite him was gazing at him strangely, though he could not say exactly how.
Nor was it just that.
He vaguely felt a chill emanating from the Evil God sculpture he carried— a holy relic gifted by the Lord.
For some reason, it made his neck feel cold.
This ominous premonition flashed briefly, quickly suppressed by the Patriarch.
That was the Lord’s sacred token. How could he entertain such blasphemous thoughts?
He rose abruptly and strode toward the door.
“I shall contact the Gravekeepers’ envoy at once, and have us participate in the council against the Holy Sword Wielder Shiltina.”
…
“How interesting.”
“As expected of the Gravekeepers…”
“Even though they failed time and again in the shadows, losing control over the Fool’s Library and the Eternal Night Stele—those two greatest inheritances from the Age of Gods…”
“This organization still retains considerable foundations.”
At the lowest depths of the Nightworld, in the reborn town of Canaan—
Rast, through his perception of the Astral Realm, and through the faint link between the Evil God of Deep Blue Port and the Present World, received information from the Western Continent.
Perhaps because three years earlier, during the Historical Echoes, Rast had thoroughly deceived the Evil God, costing it an entire Descent Half-Body—
The Evil God of Deep Blue Port, after such a crippling loss, chose to shut itself within the Threshold of Seraphim, severing contact with the Present World and abandoning its cultists.
Thus, the prayers of those cultists… were intercepted by Rast, who, having devoured that Descent Half-Body and carried a fragment of its divinity, firmly sat upon the position once belonging to the Evil God.
As for the so-called leader of the “Mechanical Flesh Cult” before the Patriarch—at first glance, Rast felt an odd sense of familiarity.
Thinking it over, he confirmed the identity.
This must have been Ophelia’s doing.
Unlike her elder sister Shiltina, who always cut down obstacles head-on with the Holy Sword—
Ophelia, with her sister-complex and cold-dark tendencies, had her own ideas. Some matters she never discussed, simply acting on her own.
“It seems that, even without my intervention… Ophelia would still have discovered the plot against her royal sister.”
“In the past, not knowing her stance, I did not think much. But now, as a comrade, Ophelia is surprisingly reliable.”
So he thought.
Meanwhile, in the Present World, the Patriarch of the Iron Cross had already contacted the Gravekeepers’ envoy.
By virtue of reestablishing contact with his god, becoming a God-Favored one, he gained the right to attend the council.
This gathering was apparently hosted by the Gravekeepers, employing an ancient Holy Relic as medium.
It allowed participants scattered thousands of miles across the Western Continent to attend in spirit.
To this method, Rast’s evaluation was: “A fart after pulling down your pants.”
With the current level of Western Continent technology, such a matter could be handled through an encrypted online chat group.
Clean, efficient, simple—and after the meeting, simply delete the records.
Yet the Gravekeepers insisted on using a Holy Relic to achieve what a chat app could do.
It could only be called the outdated custom of a decayed organization.
As the pseudo-“chat group” relic activated, Rast felt the Patriarch of the Iron Cross—and the Evil God sculpture containing his fragment of will—ascend from the Material Plane, reaching a higher dimension.
At the center of this sub-dimension stood an ancient bronze long table.
On either side of the fog-shrouded table sat indistinct human forms upon bronze chairs.
Each was veiled in black mist, their forms hidden, only the faint hue of their spirit visible.
“So, these are the leaders of all the remaining cults on the Western Continent?”
“It seems that under Shiltina’s suppression, life has grown so harsh for them they’ve been forced to unite, hoping to stir up a great upheaval.”
Rast quietly studied the figures around the table.
Though the relic concealed their identities, preventing him from seeing their appearances, by the strength of their spirits, he could still gauge their ranks.
It was clear most of these cult leaders were not strong. Like the Patriarch of the Iron Cross, most remained at Fifth or Sixth Tier beneath Legendary. A few touched the threshold of quasi-Legendary, but had not crossed the final step.
This was natural.
The so-called “Path to Legend” admitted no outside aid.
Every Legendary was a miracle unique to this world, impossible to replicate. Even if one duplicated every talent, resource, condition, and experience of a predecessor, it was impossible to walk the same path.
That was why Legends were so rare, the greatest chasm among the extraordinary, even harder to cross than ascending from Legend to Angel.
Even Rast himself, to accelerate past long years of accumulation, had paid the price of shattering his Nightblade and Sequence, leaving himself half-dead, a crippled body on a hospital bed.
And as for Emis—an ordinary woman, unacquainted with the extraordinary—just to contain the Judgment Holy Grail, she had endured an entire era of torment and self-sealing, nearly consumed by its will, before finally subsuming it as her own power.
These cult leaders, perhaps aided by the Power of Faith, by divine gifts and favor, could skip the early stages, reach the Sixth Tier’s peak—yet this final step to Legend could never be granted by borrowed power.
Of course, aside from these weak flames of soul, Rast also noted several immensely strong presences at the table, comparable to the Judgment Angel he had recently torn apart.
He knew: these were the high ranks of the Gravekeepers—the true Angels.
Figures of the Age of Gods, once again awakened from the River of History, stepping onto the stage.