Chapter 631: Dragging

On the rooftop, Gilgamesh still stands there, the two chains extending from the ripples behind him, stretched taut, one end attached to those black‑red vortices, the other coiled around the Divine Lord's arm.

He makes no move, just stands there, his scarlet eyes half‑open, the slight curve at the corner of his mouth still present, as if watching a play—a play in which he himself is the star.

Jing Yuan hovers in midair, the Golden Spear crossed before him, his white hair fluttering in the wind, his robes dusted with ash, the strand of blood at his mouth dried into a dark‑red scab.

He glances at the two chains, then at the silent black‑armored figure on the rooftop, and suddenly smiles.

"The chains that bind a god."

He says softly, his voice low, but in the quiet ruins each word is heard clearly, "It's surprisingly respectful of me."

The Divine Lord is still struggling.

Golden lightning bursts layer by layer beneath the chains, scorching the links to a glowing red, yet they do not loosen, one loop binding another, each link tightening as it struggles.

Jing Yuan feels that sluggish pressure transmit from the Divine Lord to his own body, as if countless hands press him from all directions, making even a slight turn of the spear tip arduous.

He casts another glance at the black‑armored silhouette on the rooftop.

That person remains silent, unmoving, just standing there, his scarlet eyes reflecting the golden lightning still writhing around the Divine Lord.

He does not press the attack, does not draw more Noble Phantasms, he simply watches, as if waiting for something.

Jing Yuan suddenly understands.

This person is not waiting for the Divine Lord to break free from the chains, nor for Jing Yuan to devise a way out; he is merely watching—watching how this golden giant struggles, how the white‑haired man escapes the predicament, how the drama unfolds.

Jing Yuan retracts the Golden Spear, holding it before him; the golden light on the shaft gradually dims, no longer contending with the chains.

The Divine Lord also quiets; the lightning ceases exploding, the spear lowers, still bound by the chains, standing amid the ruins like an old statue forgotten in overgrown grass.

The black‑armored figure on the rooftop tilts his head slightly.

A flash of light passes through those scarlet eyes.

Jing Yuan lifts his head, looks at those eyes, expressionless, but his mind races.

He ponders the property of Heaven's Lock—more effective against opponents with stronger Divine Nature—so if he pulls the Divine Lord back, can the chains still hold him?

What if he does not counter with the Divine Lord's power, but uses another method?

He also thinks of a farther question.

This Heroic Spirit named Gilgamesh, wielding the world‑rending Guai Li Sword, yet only uses chains to bind the Divine Lord, neither attacking nor retreating, merely stalling.

What is he waiting for? Waiting to concede? Waiting for the three girls below to rush up and die? Or waiting for something he has not yet seen?

Jing Yuan does not know.

But he knows one thing— the longer the delay, the worse it becomes for the three people below.

He must find a way to break the stalemate, not by brute force, but by another means.

He lowers his head, glances at the three heads protruding behind the building below.

Jing Yuan withdraws his gaze, turns again to the black‑armored silhouette on the rooftop.

"Dragging it out like this,"

his voice is low, yet in this ruin each word is crystal clear, "aren't you tired?"

The person on the rooftop gives no reply.

He only slowly straightens his tilted head, those scarlet eyes fixed on Jing Yuan, the slight curve at his mouth deepening.

Jing Yuan smiles, the Golden Spear in his hand flashes again; he ceases battling the chains and instead draws his power back into himself.

The chains remain.

The Divine Lord remains bound.

Yet those intangible restraints fade from him piece by piece.

He moves his wrist; the Golden Spear spins once in his palm, then he lifts his head, looking at the black‑armored figure on the rooftop.

"Again."

Perspective shifts.

"That Jing Yuan now…"

Her words are cut off by the Command Spell on Bai Hang's back of the hand.

When that light flared from Bai Hang's hand, she herself froze for a moment, then swiftly raised the Command Spell to her ear, as if listening to something.

A few seconds later she lowers her hand, her expression shifting from confusion to complexity.

"He said he knows."

"He'll find a way to let us withdraw first."

San Yue Qi still wants to say something, but the weapons in the sky have already begun to fall.

Not all, just a few—like testing—one sword grazes the Divine Lord's shoulder guard, leaving a shallow scar on his golden armor; a spear sweeps over Jing Yuan's head, shearing off several of his floating white hairs, which drift in the air for a moment before the wind carries them away; and an axe flies over the low wall, striking the ruins thirty meters behind them, exploding into black‑red flame that burns several crooked steel bars into glowing red iron rods.

The sounds of the weapons hitting the ground, the explosions, and the flames merging together churn into a mush in San Yue Qi's ears.

Yet she hears one thing clearly—the weapons were deliberately aimed off‑target.

Not that they missed, but that they didn't want to hit.

At least for now they don't intend to.

Jing Yuan turns in midair, his back to the black‑armored silhouette on the rooftop.

His mouth moves, but no sound reaches her; the distance is too great, the wind too strong, and the words are torn apart before they finish traveling.

Yet San Yue Qi reads his lip‑shape, catching two words: "Go."

She swiftly pulls Lin's arm as they dash out from behind the low wall; her legs still weak, each step on the broken stones feels like stepping on cotton, soft and powerless.

Bai Hang follows behind, her Fox Ears pressed low, Tail stretched straight behind her, her azure eyes scanning the road while also watching the ripples still slowly turning in the sky.

As they run into the adjacent building, another round of explosions erupts behind them; the sounds of weapons landing, shockwaves overturning debris, and black‑red flames burning blend together, chasing them from behind like a pack of starving, maddened beasts.

San Yue Qi pushes Lin into the doorway, then slips in herself; Bai Hang is the last to enter, and as she comes in she casually grabs the already crooked iron door, pulling it against the frame.

A two‑finger‑wide gap remains between the door and the frame; dim light leaks through that slit, casting their three shadows on the wall behind, crooked and bent like three flagpoles warped by the wind.

San Yue Qi leaned against the wall, panting heavily.

She pulled the Clockboy out of her pocket.

The tiny Clockboy slipped from between her fingers, hanging beneath her wrist, and swayed twice.

"Clockboy,"

Her voice was pressed low, her breath still uneven, "Mark a Node, right now."

The tiny Clockboy swayed beneath her wrist, emitting an extremely faint "Tick".

Bai Hang crouched beneath the window, poking half a head out from the edge of the windowsill, glanced up at the sky, then withdrew.

Her complexion turned somewhat pallid in the dim light.

"That guy,"