Chapter 181: God Is Dead?

Divine blood sprinkled upon the heavens' earth, and where it fell, the land healed, flowers and grass reborn, saturated with divinity.

The blood of a god is unquestionably a treasure of heaven and earth.

Yet people's attention was not on the divine blood, but on the fatal wound where the God's Sword pierced the colossal body of the Feathered Serpent God—blood spurted from there.

"Use your blood to revive my heaven…"

As God finished speaking, his pupils sharply contracted.

Seeing how close they were due to the wound, the Feathered Serpent God showed no hesitation, opened his blood-splattering maw, and unleashed a torrent of bloody divine radiance as he bit down hard upon God's skull.

"Ahh!!!"

God screamed in agony.

The Feathered Serpent God's attack was too swift, too decisive; even if God had reacted in time and retreated, his skull had already shattered, half his face reduced to bloody pulp, and torrents of sacred blood gushed forth like a golden rain, drenching the heavens.

This scene was heart-stopping, suffocating, and sent chills down the spine.

At once, they understood: the Feathered Serpent God knew he had reached his limit, incapable of delivering a final killing blow, and now sought to sacrifice his last body to kill.

Their hearts trembled, their souls bowed in solemn reverence.

This was the god who had survived from the heart of the earliest battlefield?

Ruthlessly decisive—even if he lost eight hundred, he would inflict a thousand casualties; knowing his death was near, he would not let his enemy escape, seeking to trade lives, dragging his foe down with him.

God was severely wounded, half his head torn open, half his face gone; without hesitation, he retreated backward, seeking distance from the Feathered Serpent God.

Now that the Feathered Serpent God's injuries had fully erupted, his body could no longer sustain peak combat power, his divine energy nearly exhausted, teetering on the brink of annihilation—there was no need to fight him to the death; circling and harassing him was enough.

Remember: though the Feathered Serpent God could no longer unleash his peak power, his body's raw strength remained undeniably formidable—God was no match for him in close combat.

Yet as God retreated, the Feathered Serpent God denied him any chance, burning his last remaining divine energy to unleash his terrifying speed.

From afar, a colossal figure lunged toward God, like a black starry river surging forward.

The heavens of this paradise roared, mountains turned to dust—all caused by endless gale winds; in truth, neither had touched any mountain.

Suddenly.

God's vision blurred—the Feathered Serpent God was upon him. Before he could think, before he could dodge, God swung his God's Sword at the Feathered Serpent God's body—and at once felt a violent, searing pain in his own body.

Black feathers and serpent scales flew wildly, divine blood sprayed.

The Feathered Serpent God's body nearly split in two, his rear half still attached to the front only by strips of skin.

Yet people's attention was not on him, but on the Feathered Serpent God's mouth.

His mouth was caked in blood—God's blood. Worse still, half his body hung from his jaws—also God's, God's lower half.

Believers lost all capacity for thought, forgot to breathe, forgot their memories—all they knew was the scene before them.

The Feathered Serpent God had bitten off half of God's body and swallowed it.

Horrifying!

Shocking!

Terrifying!

Insane!

In this moment, the world seemed to lose its sound, eerily silent, save for God's piercing screams.

In this moment, the heavens were stained with blood, and God himself was stained with blood.

In this moment, the Feathered Serpent God's divine energy was utterly spent.

Far away, the Maya gods' eyes cracked with rage, charging toward this place without regard for anything; the Seven Archangels arrived likewise with their angelic legions.

"Lord Feathered Serpent!!" The colossal Maya gods wept.

They slaughtered furiously toward God, surrounding the Feathered Serpent God, guarding him, watching the Seven Archangels and their legions with vigilance, their eyes blazing with divine flames, fixed upon God—gazes so chilling they froze the marrow.

The Seven Archangels likewise shielded God, swords drawn, watching the Maya gods with tense hostility.

At this moment, the world remained silent.

No one spoke, not even daring to breathe, fearing they might shatter the solemnity and reverence of the scene, determined to etch this image into memory.

Now, both the Feathered Serpent God and God's fates were unknown.

Yet the outcome no longer mattered—for the battle had been so brutal, so horrific, that no one cared about the result anymore; all they wanted to know was whether the Feathered Serpent God, who had burned his last drop of blood and tear for his people, who had carved his fearsome name from the earliest battlefield, was dead.

They wanted to know whether God, whether truly merciful or merely hypocritical, equally mad, was dead—and if he was, whether it meant the collapse of the world's greatest faith.

God's holy light had dimmed to its faintest glimmer; the Feathered Serpent God's black feathered scales flickered erratically, like the last embers of a candle, ready to vanish at the slightest breeze.

At this moment.

A voice, impossibly weak yet still bearing dignity and supreme authority, boomed forth—the Feathered Serpent God was too frail, his divine energy spent, his wounds beyond healing, struggling even to speak, yet he summoned every last ounce of strength to utter:

"Go slaughter America."

These five simple words echoed, shaking the soul.

He did not say "kill God"—he first spoke of avenging his people.

Even now, as death loomed, the Feathered Serpent God still clung to avenging his people, never forgetting the promise he made to them: to shield them from wind and rain; even if his people died, he would grant them glory, ensuring the world remembered that once, on this Beimeizhou, lived a people—his people, the Indigenous, under the protection of the Feathered Serpent God.

The world fell silent—even God's followers were silent, not a single curse uttered.

They could not curse.

How could one curse a god who valued his people more than the death of the supreme deity of any myth? How could one curse him?

Even the coldest hearts stirred with reverence.

The world understood: in the Feathered Serpent God's eyes, ancient gods, supreme deities of any pantheon, meant less than a single ordinary mortal.

It began to rain.

A gray, drizzling rain, softly pattering.

Across every land, every nation, fine rain fell, drenching every place, every patch of earth; flowers and leaves bore droplets that slid from their tips like tears, splashing into glistening sparks.

The rain blurred the world, blurred people's eyes, and soaked into every heart.

This was a god weeping, drawing heaven itself to mourn.

"Lord Quetzalcoatl…" the Maya gods wept.

That once-majestic, all-conquering Maya god — fierce as a giant spirit who had even driven one of the Seven Archangels into a rout — now had water sliding down his rugged face, weeping beyond any trace of dignity.

He held his blade, made no move, his eyes filled only with sorrow.

"Lord Quetzalcoatl, please, please care for yourself — you're about to die."

Clearly he was unwilling to leave, because the moment he let any one Maya god depart to go on a slaughter, the Seven Archangels would very likely lead the angelic host straight over to attack; one god fewer meant one more chance to kill Quetzalcoatl.

"Go." Quetzalcoatl spoke weakly, and in his dim serpent pupils that gleam of resolve blazed bright.

His voice was very weak, nearly on the verge of fading, yet it carried an air that brooked no doubt.

……