Chapter 391: Slaughterhouse of Hope

Sun Wukong froze in place.

The icy words "Great Harvest" were like a cold wind from the Nine Nether Hell, blowing away Yao's last trace of color.

Yao could not understand.

Through the Dream Ark, she saw worlds full of vitality,

embracing death in the most bizarre, absurd way.

She could not connect any of this with "war."

"Why?"

Yao's voice trembled, thick with sobs.

"Why don't they resist? Why don't they fight?"

Sun Wukong did not turn back.

His eyes, churning with Chaos Realm, reflected the lament of myriad worlds.

"Because what the enemy cuts off is not their limbs."

His voice was hoarse, like two rusted iron plates scraping together.

"What the enemy cuts off is the backbone called 'hope' in their hearts."

The words had not yet faded.

A brand-new, even more cruel scroll unfolded in his divine sense.

It was a planet bathed in the golden light of a Star.

On the planet lived a beautiful race—the Winged People.

They bore twin wings, worshipped the Sun, and revered the Star that gave them light and heat as their sole, supreme god.

Their civilization had just begun to sprout.

They learned to build, with the crudest levers, altar after altar facing the Sun.

Their society was filled with the purest goodwill.

On every Winged Person's face shone boundless hope for the future.

This was a cradle of hope, untouched by any dust.

Then.

"The Apostles" arrived.

Not just one.

But hundreds or thousands of ships, transformed from the Silent World into icy War Planets!

They surrounded this fragile planet and the Sun they worshipped like a precise wolf pack, leaving no gap.

The Winged People fled in terror to the sky, gazing at the steel monsters, larger than their world, exuding a deathly aura.

They did not understand what had happened.

Fear Heart Demon spread.

But the anticipated attack never came.

Those War Planets merely hovered there, silent.

Like a group of indifferent spectators.

Just as all the Winged People felt bewildered,

the bottom of one War Planet opened a bottomless, pitch-black maw.

A stream of indescribable, foul, curse-laden pure-black demonic energy, like a filthy poison dragon, erupted from the maw!

Its target was not the planet.

nor the trembling Winged People.

but the golden, radiant Sun in the heavens that they revered as a god!

Under the horrified gaze of all the Winged People!

The black poison dragon plunged headfirst into the Sun's core!

"No!!!"

The Winged People's Grand Priest, an old man with white hair, unleashed a heart-rending, despairing roar!

The golden Star trembled violently.

It seemed as if a holy deity was suffering the foulest defilement!

Visible to the naked eye, black "veins" spread wildly across the Sun's surface!

The Sun's light waned.

The Sun's heat faded.

It struggled.

It moaned in grief.

But it was all in vain.

That black demonic energy was like the most efficient cancer cells.

In just a few breaths, it devoured all of the Sun's light and heat.

Finally.

A cold, Deathly Silence-emitting black star, exuding endless death and ill omen...

It took the Sun's place.

Hung high in the sky.

The whole world instantly fell into eternal darkness and icy cold.

All the feathered ones were stunned.

They tilted their heads upward, gazing at the black star in Heaven that exuded a deathly aura, and the last spark in their eyes was completely extinguished.

God.

Dead.

Their Faith, at this moment, was uprooted and shattered to pieces!

Along with it collapsed all the meaning of their continued existence.

"God... has abandoned us..."

A young feathered one, despondent and lost, muttered to himself.

He released his grip on his partner's hand.

Then, he folded away the pair of pristine white wings that had once been his pride.

He let his body, like a stone, plunge straight down from the towering heights.

"Bang!"

A muffled, desperate sound.

It seemed like a signal of beginning.

The second.

The third.

Thousands upon thousands.

Dense and countless.

All the feathered ones folded their wings.

There was no pain, no sorrow on their faces.

Only a numb Deathly Silence.

They collectively fell from the heights.

In this most decisive manner, they put a blood‑soaked period on their civilization.

The entire process.

Those war‑torn planets did not kill a single feathered one.

They merely, before everyone's eyes, killed their "Hope".

…

The other side.

A gaunt monk arrived at a vast cultivation world on the brink of universal ascension.

Here, billions of cultivators each resembled dragons.

After ten million years of arduous cultivation, they finally, together, opened the legendary supreme Celestial Gate that leads to the Immortal Realm!

The massive light gate towered above the Heaven dome.

Beyond the gate lay radiant celestial light and a refreshing aura that soothed the soul.

Every cultivator's face brimmed with fervent, ecstatic, supreme joy at the brink of attaining the Dao!

Just as they prepared to step through the Celestial Gate together.

That monk appeared.

He stood silently before the Celestial Gate.

No obstruction.

No words.

He merely gave the billions of cultivators a compassionate, benevolent smile.

Then, he extended his hand.

He pushed the Celestial Gate a little wider for them.

"Thank you, senior!"

The leading elder cultivator, thinking he had met an upper‑realm immortal to guide them, excitedly bowed to him.

Then, the first, full of hope, rushed into the gate!

Under his lead.

Billions of cultivators, like weary birds returning to their roost, surged forward into that gate representing eternity, transcendence, and hope!

However.

They did not see.

Behind them.

The "compassion" on the monk's face was chilling.

What he opened for them was not the Immortal Realm at all.

It was an absolute "Void", more terrifying and hopeless than the eighteenth hell.

The elder cultivator who first entered still wore a wild joy on his face.

The moment his body touched the Void beyond the gate, it was as if an invisible eraser gently brushed over him.

His Dao Fruit.

His Divine Soul.

His ten‑million‑year arduous cultivation.

All traces of his existence.

In an instant, it was wiped clean!

Not even a miserable cry could be uttered in time.

Immediately followed.

It was the second, the third, the hundred‑thousandth, the hundred‑millionth…

That scene was incomparably magnificent.

And also incomparably strange!

Just like a fireworks display that had reached the utmost grandeur!

Myriad rays, representing the lifelong cultivation of powerful cultivators, brilliant streams of light filled with infinite hope for the future, rushed into that darkness.

Then, at the moment they burst forth with the most dazzling light.

Silently, they returned to nothing.

Brilliant.

And then, deathly silence.

From beginning to end, the monk never moved a finger.

He was merely like a supreme surgeon, using a scalpel named 'Hope' to vivisect an entire civilization.

This spiritual slaughter is ten thousand times more cruel than physical destruction!

Inside Wanshen Fenchang.

Sun Wukong closed his eyes.

He could no longer bear to look.

His heart was dripping blood.

He finally understood.

This 'Great Harvest' is not simply destruction.

This is a meticulously planned genocide aimed at 'Hope' itself!

The Original Mistake utterly disdains waging an evenly matched war with these 'erroneous' civilizations.

What it wants to do is to pull the fire from under the cauldron!

It is to completely castrate, spiritually, all possibility of resistance!

It wants to plant a seed named 'Despair' in the hearts of all living beings!

Let everyone believe that to live is the greatest mistake!

"Madman…"

"A bunch of outright madmen!"

Sun Wukong's teeth gritted, making a creaking sound; a strand of golden divine blood slowly seeped from the corner of his mouth.

However.

The next second.

He suddenly opened his eyes!

Because he discovered.

Whether it is the destruction of the feather‑folk world or the end of the cultivation world.

Those apostles, after completing the 'harvest', did not stop.

What they harvested—the endless despair and deathly silence—turned into streams of black, invisible-to-the-naked-eye torrents.

These torrents did not dissipate.

Instead, they were drawn by an invisible force, converging toward the same direction!

Sun Wukong's divine sense, following these streams of despair, wildly traced back!

He saw.

These black torrents, in the void of the universe, wove together into a vast, unimaginable, vicious net!

And the center of that net, the point toward which all despair points, the sole final coordinate…

Turns out, it is!

The Three Realms!