Chapter 100: The Faint Shadow

The capital of Britain has become a hell on earth.

Another gloomy, gray day, but no one cursed the damned weather anymore.

A light drizzle passed through the altar’s projection, carrying radioactive dust, falling upon the city’s ruins—once one of the world’s most vibrant metropolises, just hours ago.

Just moments ago, nuclear bombs exploded, mushroom clouds rose, houses were flattened, trees withered instantly, and ash blanketed everywhere. Those still on the surface were instantly “vaporized”; all living creatures turned to skeletons in an instant.

Survivors hid in bomb shelters, hearing a massive tremor from above—they knew what it was, but could only weep silently, despair, confusion, and madness spreading through every shelter.

Yet the nuclear explosion was not the end; even Earth’s most powerful weapon, humanity’s greatest technological achievement, could not halt the altar’s projection from continuing its harvest of lives.

The semi-transparent lines in the sky seemed to exist in another dimension; the nuclear blast affected only this world, having no connection to the altar in the other realm.

At the moment of the nuclear explosion, the scattered specks from the altar remained unaffected, continuing to seep through the soil into bomb shelters, landing on people.

At first, people fell into a daze, then their expressions turned to longing and joy, lips curling in peaceful smiles, their skin gradually drying, turning bluish-brown, becoming mummified corpses.

Those who had not awakened could not see the faint light; those who had awakened fled from it—but the specks were everywhere; where could they hide?

The capital, closest to the altar, suffered first; surrounding cities gradually fell as well.

Countless people knelt on the ground, begging God for mercy; countless others begged the demon god for forgiveness.

At this moment, many in the world understood the demon god’s power; they had once dismissed Wade’s Divine Punishment Organization as delusional cultists—madmen led by a lunatic, brainwashed followers.

Now they knew the demon god was real, and felt even a fraction of His might.

Humanity had never been so terrified—a sword of Damocles hung above every human neck.

Ampthill, a coastal city at Britain’s southernmost tip.

In a modest apartment, the Batons held their four-year-old daughter, Christine, silently staring at the TV screen turned black.

They had just watched live footage of the altar draining lives, and the nuclear explosion in the capital.

“Mom, Dad, is the movie over? Why is the TV black?” Christine asked curiously.

The father paused, then answered softly and gently: “Yes, the movie’s over.”

The mother walked silently to the window, gazing at the sky as tears fell without sound.

The father carried his daughter to his wife’s side, kissed his wife, then kissed his daughter’s fuzzy curls.

The three of them embraced by the window, waiting for Death’s knock.

Suddenly, the altar in the sky flickered. The young couple, lost in tears, did not notice—but confused Christine pointed at the sky with a child’s voice: “Mommy, Daddy, that thing in the sky just moved!”

The Batons looked up in terror, fearing the horrific ritual had reached them.

Just then, the projection in the sky flickered again—like a TV signal glitching, cutting out, then reconnecting.

Almost all of Britain saw this: those waiting silently by windows for death, those still conscious in underground shelters watching the livestream, and everyone gathered before TVs worldwide.

In the instant the altar flickered, people in Westminster, Kensington, Lambeth… and over a dozen surrounding cities, who had been lost in blissful illusions, suddenly woke up—as if a beautiful dream had been shattered by a sudden noise. They blinked, dazed, then realized—just now, they had nearly died without a sound, their faces turning pale.

After the dread passed, a question arose in their hearts: What happened to the altar? Did the nuclear bomb work?

The altar flickered violently again; in the twisting light and shadow, a faint shadow flashed—like a single discordant frame inserted into a film reel, gone in an instant, nearly invisible to the naked eye.

Yet countless organizations and experts worldwide were analyzing the livestream—governmental, corporate, private—they captured that anomalous image.

…

Ark Country, Washington City, the Hexagon Building.

Top global experts extracted the fleeting image; results came quickly. The experts exchanged glances, printed it immediately, and sent their findings to the President’s office.

The President of Ark Country, his aged, cloudy eyes wide, held the printed images and reports still warm from the printer.

He looked up at the officials standing in the room: “It seems… we must activate that plan…”

…

Somewhere in the capital of Xia Country, a tightly secured underground military center.

The vast chamber was packed; every occupant wore military uniform, faces grim—each one among the top commanders of the military system.

A large screen split into multiple smaller ones, each broadcasting live feeds from across Britain; the largest displayed the nuclear aftermath of the capital.

This unprecedented disaster weighed heavily on their hearts: Britain was next—what about Xia Country? If Xia faced this catastrophe, could it survive? Could they find a solution?

Suddenly, the livestream flickered. Everyone saw it. Minutes later, the analysis results landed on the desk of the Chairman—a stern-faced General.

The altar’s projection in the livestream continued to flicker erratically.

The General swiftly scanned the data, his expression a mix of surprise and dread. He waved his hand: “Project the results onto the main screen…”

………

In a secret military base beneath a city in Britain.

Defense Chief Tony Carter stared blankly at the large screen. Helicopters flew over the ruins of Britain; the live camera showed a once-great nation now reduced to rubble.

The aircraft even flew directly through the altar’s projection—the damned altar remained unmoved, as if nothing on Earth could shake its presence.

This proved his nuclear strike was useless—merely the senseless slaughter of nearly nine million innocent civilians in Britain’s capital.

If Britain perished because of the altar, so be it. But if they somehow survived, Defense Chief Tony Carter would be a traitor to history.

Suddenly, the altar flickered. Tony Carter’s hand trembled violently—he lost composure for the first time, shouting: “Quick! Quick! Analyze it! Did the nuke work? Is the altar collapsing?!”

He could not sit still—he rushed to the battlefield analysis unit, staring at the analysts’ computer screens.

Tony Carter’s salt-and-pepper hair was disheveled, his breathing ragged. Daniel Quint, the analyst seated beside the computer, clearly heard his heart pounding.

Finally, the analysis results appeared on screen: a blurred, distorted shadow, invisible to the naked eye. After scientific reconstruction, they finally saw what it was.

The upper half of the image showed endless desert; the sky held unknown stars—if an astronomer analyzed it, they would know this place was not Earth.

The right half showed blocks of bluish-black stone, carved with patterns, glowing with crimson light—anyone familiar with altars would recognize it as a physical altar.

From the altar’s perspective, a faint figure stood nearby.

Enlarging the blurred figure, enhancing it with advanced technology, a familiar silhouette emerged.

It was a silhouette known to nearly everyone on Earth.

The person hovered midair, a slender frame swaying precariously.

Her face was deathly pale, blood and hair matted together, streaked with sand and dust.

With all her strength, she stretched out both hands, as if wielding an invisible great blade, slashing toward the bluish-black altar.

That was Yang Yi.