Chapter 536: Wronged Soul

He watched the paper figure's incarnation melt into the shadows in the distance, the prophet's avatar turned and walked back to the desk against the wall, rummaged through a drawer for the candles, essential oils and other items needed for the ritual, and skillfully set up the ceremony to petition for a blessing.

As soon as the ritual finished, Ke Lai En responded above the gray mist, sending out a stack of cut paper figures, a dark copper lantern, a child‑like scribbled scroll, and a golden metal cube.

With these items appearing, the room's temperature rose rapidly, jumping from early spring straight to scorching summer.

The dim yellow gas wall lamp brightened, looking more like a bright yellow furnace, radiating light and heat outward.

The prophet's avatar lowered his head to sense the room's temperature and the lingering solar aura, murmuring softly:

"This container won't hold for long; the Chaser of Light's trait is truly troublesome to store."

Mid‑sentence, he summoned an invisible hand that lifted the metal cube from the floor into his grasp.

The moment he grasped it, it felt like holding a ball of flame; the skin on his palm quickly dried, reddened, and began to show charred marks.

Enduring the scorching heat in his hand, the prophet's avatar let a pale blue radiance flow from his eyes; specks of brass light darted around him, tracing strange sigils in the air that gradually merged into the faint golden glow of the metal cube in his hand.

The cube's temperature gradually fell, and the engraved symbols and magical sigils that reflected brilliant golden sunlight dimmed quickly, shifting from golden to a bronze hue tinged with rust.

He slipped the cube into his coat pocket, bent down to pick up the scribbled scroll still on the floor, and looked at Ke Lai En, who had already risen above the gray mist, saying:

"You can get ready to run; I used paper figures to distract a few approaching people, but they'll catch on soon."

"Give this lantern to your secret familiar; although its body is essentially a corpse, it can evade negative effects. As long as you're within the lantern's light, you should be able to warp or confuse the target of attacks through your bond with the familiar."

"Fine." Ke Lai En did not refuse; after nodding, he instructed his secret familiar Ji Er Xi Ai Si to pick up the dark copper lantern and the stack of cut paper figures still on the ground.

He swiftly tidied the room, erasing his traces, then pulled a paper figure from the inner pocket of his coat and flicked it away.

Naturally, it ignited mid‑air, turning to ash that the swirling spiritual wind blew out through the half‑open window.

These paper figures, placed above the gray mist and infused with its aura, will yield stronger divination reversal effects.

Having done all that, he turned to the prophet's avatar leaning against the wall, still rotating the rolled scroll in his hand, and gave a gentle nod, saying:

"Which direction is safest for me to run now?"

"Inside the city, toward the church," the prophet's avatar replied with a slight nod.

As he spoke, he turned, pressed his right hand against the wall, and a pale blue glow beneath his palm rippled like water, spreading outward until, in an instant, a translucent pale‑blue "door" materialized.

Pointing at the opened "door" on the wall, he chuckled lightly and said:

"Good luck; after you escape the city, I'll catch up to you."

Ke Lai En gave a slight nod, without asking what he intended to stay for, and, with his secret familiar, passed through the wall's "door" and left the inn.

Watching Ke Lai En depart, the prophet's avatar returned to the small round table by the window, raised his hand and snapped his fingers, and the spiritual barrier enveloping the inn room vanished instantly.

Then he retrieved several folded paper figures from his coat pocket and, with a casual motion, tossed them out the window.

A sudden gust of wind lifted them, and the pale‑yellow paper figures were carried to various spots on the street.

Having finished, he spread the child‑like scribbled scroll on the tabletop.

He gently rubbed his fingers, creating specks of brass‑colored light that fell onto the scroll; the chaotic colors on it seemed to come alive, slowly flowing across the paper.

Hoo— a cold draft suddenly swept the quiet room; under the dim yellow gas wall lamp, a full‑length mirror in the corner suddenly reflected a human silhouette.

His figure was ethereal and drifting, like a formless wraith, slipping easily out of the mirror and appearing in the inn room.

He wore a black tailcoat, his eye sockets deep, his face death‑pale, appearing in his thirties; his light‑brown hair was neatly part‑styled, his eyes black with a hint of green, exuding uncontainable madness.

He glanced down at the odd little figure in his hand, then scanned the room with a puzzled gaze, paying no attention to the figure seated at the round table.

The prophet's avatar remained relaxed in his wooden chair, his voice calm, almost warning, as he spoke:

"A 'Wronged Soul'?"

"Do you know that barging into someone else's room is impolite?"

Hearing him, the other finally fixed his gaze on him, malicious intent raging in his eyes, and, in a low voice, said:

"Is this room only you?"

"Of course not; there's also a misplaced extraordinary trait," the prophet's avatar replied with a light laugh.

Pale blue light streamed from his eyes, sketching one strange sigil after another in his pupils, appearing cold and rational; his emotions and desires were suppressed to the extreme, and he entered a state of absolute reason.

At the same time, the suddenly intruding Wronged Soul became transparent and ethereal; centered on him, an inexplicable cold wind swept the room, and death‑scented white frost quickly covered the space, while beautiful, dreamlike snowflakes drifted in mid‑air.

The sudden drop in temperature made everyone's hair stand on end, causing an uncontrollable shiver.

In the next moment, all the frost and snow vanished, turning into a puddle of multicolored paint that dripped onto the floor.

"Heh, if you can't summon a demigod to save you right now, I'll take the 'Wronged Soul' trait on you," the prophet's avatar leaned back against the chair, gray‑white three‑dimensional symbols flickering in his eyes, making his voice unusually compelling, provoking anger and impulsiveness.

Seemingly provoked, the opposing "Wronged Soul" stepped forward a pace, and its body became completely transparent and vanished.

In the next instant, within each of the prophet's avatar's pupils, a figure in a black tailcoat, with deep eye sockets and a death‑pale face, materialized.

His body became somewhat rigid, as if suddenly thrown into an extremely cold ice block, making effective movement difficult.

The condition didn't last long; he gently rubbed his fingers twice, producing specks of bright yellow glimmer that scattered over his body.

The next moment, his body thinned and became brittle, turning into a crudely cut pale‑yellow paper figure that spontaneously ignited with a golden flame radiating solar aura.

Within the golden flame, a translucent ethereal silhouette suddenly emerged; his body melted like a candle, dripping transparent liquid onto the ground.

The intense burning forced him to emit high‑pitched howls, his voice so sharp it seemed capable of piercing eardrums and harming spirits.

The prophet's avatar, whose silhouette appeared in the room's corner, saw his eye radiance deepen; brass‑colored specks converged before him, tracing a scale‑like pattern that exuded a terrifying, awe‑inspiring authority.

At the same time, his voice, laden with indescribable authority, said:

"No shrieking of Wronged Souls is allowed here!"

The shriek that had just echoed in the room vanished abruptly, as if shifted to another dimension; the room fell completely silent.

Within the golden "Radiant Fire," the tormented "Wronged Soul" still opened its mouth to scream, yet no sound emerged.

The prophet's avatar stood calmly in place, continuing in his imposing voice, "No lingering shadows of Wronged Souls are permitted here!"

In the center of the room, the "Wronged Soul" cloaked in semi‑transparent white frost froze mid‑action; its aura waned and continued to drop, its already pale, ethereal form becoming even more translucent, as if about to vanish.

The prophet's avatar stared intently at the opponent, leaning forward, clenching his right fist; as his arm swung, he whispered in Dragon Language, "Death!"

A afterimage surged from his body with the motion of his punch, like an executioner of death, striking the "Wronged Soul" at the room's center in an unstoppable, unavoidable manner.

The breath of the Wronged Soul grew feeble, and before he could react, the afterimage swinging its fists already slammed into him.

The transparent, illusory Wronged Soul's body split inch by inch at the heart, shattering into fragments of red phosphorus formed from deep‑red moonlight.

At the same time, a beam of deep‑red moonlight appeared at the room's window and quickly reassembled the Wronged Soul's body.

The Prophet's duplicate kept moving his hands, gathering specks of bright yellow light that burst into clear, pure sunshine, gradually shaping into the form of a long spear.

Splash!

In the next instant, the inn's room was pierced from outside as if it were a sheet of paper; a pair of broad, brown‑black hands scarred with deep grooves reached in, seized the Wronged Soul's shoulder, and dragged him out.

"No wonder they're so arrogant; so there really is a demigod behind them!" the Prophet's duplicate exclaimed as if unaware.

The inn room's ceiling, walls, and floor all began to melt, vivid, rich pigments flowing everywhere, spontaneously converging onto the small round table by the window, forming a haphazardly scribbled painting.

As the pigments melted, the overlapping space within the inn room returned to normal.

The Wronged Soul, just dragged out of the "room" by the suddenly appearing hands, appeared before the Prophet's duplicate together with the hands' owner.

He was an elderly man of brown‑black skin, his face etched with deep furrows, his sparse white hair like autumn leaves, seeming to have lived for countless years, exuding a scent of decay.

The Prophet's duplicate calmly surveyed the demigod before him, and the brilliance accumulating in his right hand grew a bit brighter.

He gave a light laugh toward the two solemn figures before him and said:

"Rose School? This is the capital Baiam of the Rosted Archipelago; aren't your actions a bit too reckless?"

"At sea, under the same rank, a Silent Disciple cannot defeat a Sea King."

As he spoke, he squeezed his right hand forcefully.

"Whoosh!" With a crisp shattering sound, the spear he had just formed disintegrated instantly into a blaze of pure, scorching sunlight.

The light spread outward layer by layer like tide, coating everything in gold, illuminating every corner, purifying all filth, darkness, and corruption, leaving not a trace of darkness or shadow.

As soon as the light appeared, a sizzle rang through the air.

The two members of the Rose School, unable to escape the light's radius in time, simultaneously emitted thin wisps of blue smoke.

The light arrived and vanished swiftly, lasting only a second or two, and the surroundings returned to a quiet, cool night.

"Whoosh~" In mid‑air, the wind roared suddenly, and a figure swept by the gale raced toward them from afar.

The Wronged Soul, now restored to flesh and blood, glanced anxiously at the old man beside him, his voice hoarse as he said, "Lord Jex".

(End of Chapter)