Chapter 269

The unexpected ambush met unexpected resistance; the cultivator immediately spun his sword and slashed back at Kraft, trying to force him back.

But the latter did not retreat—he advanced, precisely blocking the attack again and thrusting his sword straight down toward the face.

While the cultivator was occupied with the upper strike, Kraft pressed further, embedding subtle maneuvers within his open, upright sword techniques, stealthily lifting his foot to kick the shin.

The cultivator's lower body lost balance instantly, stumbling forward involuntarily and throwing himself into his opponent's grasp.

Kraft chose not to impale him outright; instead, relying on his precise sense of distance, he shifted his blade from thrust to strike, swinging the pommel hard against the face.

Though he avoided the vulnerable facial features, the effect was still significant—like being struck by a small iron hammer, briefly stripping away spatial awareness and most hearing; the physical impact transmitted through bone was nearly as potent as a mental shock, and faster in effect.

Dizziness and a high-pitched ringing in the ears left him disoriented, then a second strike landed on his wrist, forcing him to release his sword hilt.

With his weapon gone, the cultivator's threat plummeted; others who had previously hesitated surged forward, pinning down this deeply hidden madman, binding his hands and removing all other weapons from his person.

The cultivator who had escaped from Green's blade had vanished from sight, leaving only rapidly fading footsteps.

The priest had no intention of chasing after him in a futile search; he merely watched the spot where the man had disappeared, angry and regretful, waiting for something.

The footsteps abruptly ceased, like a sword plunged into a swamp—mud seized him, dragging him deep, leaving not even the smallest splash.

He turned silently, knelt halfway before the restrained cultivator, pulled the gilded holy emblem pendant from his chest, and pressed it against the severely swollen forehead where Kraft had struck, provoking a fit of struggle.

A rapid prayer spilled from Green's swiftly moving lips: first invoking the Heavenly Father and His saints, then pleading for forgiveness of the most devout believer's deviation, asking for their power to expel the evil from the possessed.

"In the name of the Heavenly Father, evil entity, I command you to leave this body and return to hell!" The priest locked eyes with the twisted, unnatural smile, his tone and gaze simmering with precisely calibrated indignation—enough to convey authority, not enough to disrupt the prayer's clarity.

He resembled a standard statue of a judgment angel, proclaiming the Heavenly Father's decree.

The performance was spectacular; it was clear the priest's theological degree held far greater weight than the clinic owner's medical one. Had Kraft not witnessed beings possessed by deep spiritual entities, he might have believed something truly clung to this man.

He wondered whether Green genuinely believed this worked—now that he thought about it, he'd rarely seen this priest perform any ritual before.

Even with accelerated speech, the exorcism prayer took considerable time; the cultivator's tortured mind gradually ceased struggling.

Simultaneously, perhaps due to separation from the source of influence and the potent atmosphere of the exorcism, a faint haze appeared on his face, softening the rigid, grotesque grin.

Frankly, to Kraft, this was a normal regression of delirium—but he quickly realized the primary effect was on the others.

The other cultivators were less affected, sensing little of the phenomenon; seeing their comrade show signs of relief, their panic subsided, and the stabilizing power of faith began to reassert itself.

They took over Green's role, chanting in unison, calling the man back to his brothers in the Church.

Yin Feng observed their actions curiously, sensing no unusual aura; the whispering voice had fallen silent again.

Kraft felt slightly reassured—at least this mental influence wasn't permanent. He dreaded having to eliminate a teammate; the blow to morale would far exceed that of someone going mad and killing themselves.

But he could feel something unpleasant had taken root. His mental senses had been shut down for some time, yet the constriction and shortness of breath, the discomfort, still pulsed with every breath.

The professor left the group and approached Green, who stood a few steps away, staring alone at the dark entrance of the corridor.

The priest's gaze returned to where the cultivator had vanished; his deep, rapid chest movements revealed his emotions had not yet settled.

"This is why the Church has always opposed the promotion of unnatural powers—including most miracles."

It was hard to say whether his anger was directed at the chaotic entity, at his colleague's shaken faith, or at his own limited power.

"All promotion of powers beyond ordinary human reach is fundamentally a softening of mind and morality, no different from submission to tyranny. Believing in the Heavenly Father's power is not the same as believing in the Heavenly Father."

Explaining theology to people from the Medical Academy was indeed unwise—bordering on preaching to the deaf—but it seemed Green didn't care who he spoke to; he was merely articulating his thoughts, not seeking agreement.

Kraft nodded. "I agree with that. Ideas sustained solely by expectations of reward are unstable and inherently flawed."

"To be honest, I've seen many such things—each different, yet the reactions of those who witnessed them were always similar. You're the exception."

"..." Green said nothing more; his desire to speak had temporarily exhausted itself.

Kraft was familiar with this state—these people needed time to adjust their worldview. He raised his torch and, bored, began observing his surroundings.

He had never seen such an extravagant use of black liquid crystal—perhaps it could be called "black salt"—laid out generously along this wide corridor, serving only its most basic inhibitory function.

It had melted collectively when the chaotic entity arrived, and now it had re-solidified, forming crystalline clusters like the shores of a dead sea.

It must be a boundary; beyond this point lay the true core of this labyrinthine burial complex.

According to conventional burial logic, this place would be ideal for elaborate narrative relief carvings, meant for decoration and record-keeping—but so far, none had been found. The answers likely lay only in the true center.

Vast, strange patterns covered the precious walls of the corridor: some resembled dense spiderwebs radiating from central points, while others overlapped, carved more shallowly, composed mainly of terrain-like curves and regular geometric sections.

They appeared simple at first glance, but closer inspection revealed internal textures designed for differentiation: the radiating lines were mostly filled with horizontal stripes, while the latter differed—featuring rectangular grids, diagonal grids, dot patterns, cross stars, and more, leaving Kraft's eyes dizzy.

Yet many of the designs also featured a broad band running through them, filled with horizontal stripes—its meaning was unclear.

Kraft stared for a long while, his confusion deepening; earlier human figures, though abstract, had still been comprehensible—these were truly beyond his understanding.

"Oh, the colors are quite rich?" Noticing Kraft's fixed gaze on the walls, Green looked over.

"Colors?" Kraft rubbed his eyes hard, wondering whether he or Green had a defective eye.

"Yes—like these horizontal stripes are blue, the rectangular grids are black, the small crosses are gold." Green pointed to the lines on the wall and explained.

"How do you know what colors they represent?"

"I reviewed it while reading earlier—heraldry uses them frequently. You can't expect every place with a coat of arms to have painted colors, can you?"