Chapter 189

Left shift, right shift, horizontal move, vertical move, circular motion, writing characters… Forget it, too difficult, Ang has never written anything before…

The white wraith floated behind the holy light, holding up its tiny hands, chasing after it; only when Ang stopped teasing it did it let out a soulful sigh of relief, contentedly staying beside the holy light, "roasting" its little hands.

"Roasting" is just a metaphor—it's actually absorbing holy radiation, but dares not touch the holy light directly, as it couldn't withstand it.

Ang just thought it was fun, but Negril was utterly baffled: "Holy… wraith? Kua Bada, does such a thing even exist?"

Holy skeletons, holy death-priests—those can be artificially created, but a holy wraith? Who would make something like this?

A naturally formed holy wraith? That's like "bright" darkness—it's not theology, it's nonsense.

Aside from this little wraith, the square remained utterly silent, nothing at all; as time passed, the howling sounds in the air gradually faded, and looking up, the breach in the sky was slowly shrinking, closing completely in no time.

After more than ten minutes of healing, Baihou recovered, its torn wing membranes healed, and Ang withdrew the holy light.

Oh no, this terrified the little wraith—it spun around Ang's hand frantically, then finally clutched Ang's hand and twisted it outward, probably thinking that twisting the hand would reward it with holy light.

But a wraith has no strength to move Ang's hand; after twisting for a long time with no result, it finally slumped, its entire form radiating an aura of despair.

Ang lit up one fingertip; the little wraith jolted, lunging straight at it—since the holy light on the finger was weak, it even hugged Ang's fingertip directly.

Just a tiny bit of faint holy light, not requiring much effort, so Ang kept it glowing continuously.

"Ang, bring out two heavy zombies, have them lead the way," Negril said.

Two heavy zombies were brought out—one a shield-bearer, one a sword-bearer; each lifted their greatsword and shield, stepping forward in perfect unison.

Xiamala's nose twitched, as if sensing the aura beneath the armor, muttering softly: "Undead heretic…"

For a pure Holy Maiden like her, exterminating heretics was an instinct carved into her bones—but a voice inside her screamed frantically: Don't move! Move and you'll die! Don't move! Move and you'll die!

The heavy zombies led the way; Ang and Baihou followed behind. After a few steps, Ang noticed Baihou walked with its wings pinched tight, its rear wobbling like a hen's—extremely awkward.

Negril sighed helplessly: "Put it back. Making a dragon walk on the ground is too much for it."

The situation here is unknown—can't let it fly. Who knows where defense towers might be? One shot could blast it to dust.

Returning Baihou to the Palace of Rest, only Ang and Xiamala remained—of course, along with the little wraith.

The entire Holy Heaven was utterly empty. Leaving the Square of the Gods, walking straight down the Holy Light Avenue to its end, then circling the surrounding buildings—nothing to be seen. No defenses at all. The two heavy zombies strode boldly ahead along this sacred path, yet not a single holy judgment descended upon them.

"Looks like they're truly dead—no automatic defenses left, just a single barrier membrane, nothing else. But a membrane is inert—how could it possibly stop living beings?" Negril sighed.

Ang ignored it, instead glancing back curiously at Xiamala. Since a while ago, he'd felt her emotions fluctuating constantly—anger building steadily, like a volcano about to erupt.

Sure enough, Xiamala's eyes blazed with fury, her breath exhaling black flames of wrath.

Negril now noticed too, and hurriedly asked: "What's wrong with you?"

"I… want to kill a god," Xiamala said, each word bitten out, teeth clenched, eyes blazing.

Ang instinctively stepped back two paces, summoning the Scythe of Death in readiness.

Xiamala snarled: "Why are you backing away?!"

"You want to kill a god," Ang said. He was an undead god—within the scope of what she intended to slay.

"None of your business. I'll kill every single one of the Light Gods!" Xiamala declared, as if swearing an oath—her black holy flames suddenly flared stronger.

Negril was baffled: "Why on earth are you making such a vow? That's a god-slaying oath—failing it will be a nightmare."

"They deceived everyone. There is no heaven. No happiness. This place… is not meant for the living," Xiamala said, pointing her finger at the surrounding buildings.

"Huh… now that you mention it, yeah—this isn't a world for the living. The Light Gods lied. Where are the believers they promised to guide to heaven?" At Xiamala's words, Negril felt a chilling suspicion rise.

The Holy Scripture says: devout believers, upon death, are guided to a heaven where the ground is paved with grain, rivers flow with honey, free of sickness and hunger, filled with countless beautiful men and women…

But along the way, every kind of building existed—yet not a single grain of grain, not a drop of honey, nothing a living being needs—not even a place to light a fire and cook.

So… are the grains on the ground meant to be eaten raw?

If this weren't heaven, fine—but the Square of the Gods, the Holy Light Avenue, the Dome of Light—everything matched the Scripture exactly. This is heaven.

So where are the believers who were guided here?

If they were relocated elsewhere, fine—but more likely, there was never any guiding at all. All the believers were simply disposed of.

Xiamala's fury had driven her to swear a god-slaying oath—clearly, she'd found the answer.

"Again, it's your inner voice telling you, isn't it? Ugh, why not ask me first? Don't just rashly swear oaths—if the Light Gods are gone, how will you kill them? What if you fail?" Negril said.

Whether a soul oath or a god-slaying oath, both come with costs and gains. Soul oaths forge a soul-link, connecting to the monarch's soul network, granting instant access to their power.

Like Oak—he never learned magic, yet through fanatical belief, he channeled Ang's power to kill Hemoelthos.

Sure, Hemoelthos was weak—but still a god. Don't underestimate the Insect God.

A god-slaying oath works the same: it solidifies Xiamala's belief, making her divine power denser and her strength surge—but it demands a price. Failure brings dire consequences.

But now the Light Gods are gone—where will Xiamala fulfill her oath?

Xiamala gave a strange look: "Thank you for your concern, but no need to worry—my oath has no deadline."

"Pfft…" Negril nearly spat blood, then realized—true, Xiamala's vow contained no deadline. Completion could wait indefinitely.

"Never thought you, so fair-faced, would learn such a trick," Negril muttered, surprised that someone so pure could resort to such deceit.

Xiamala smiled faintly: "Such tricks have existed in the Church for years. I just never stooped to using them—until now, it doesn't matter."

The final phrase—"it doesn't matter"—gave Negril a pang of sorrow. Before, she'd only been disappointed in the Church. Now, she was disappointed in all of Light.

A fanatic had become a sworn enemy of faith.

Negril sighed inwardly, unsure what to say, and walked silently on—until they completed the full circle and returned to the end of the Holy Light Avenue.

Beyond the Square of the Gods, the Holy Light Avenue ended at a grand temple. Climbing the long steps to the entrance, they found only an empty temple doorway—with a single statue standing alone.

It was a statue of a Holy Angel, about one meter forty tall, wings spread wide, stepping forward, head tilted upward, one hand raised as if bearing something, pointing skyward as if ready to launch.

Every detail—the expression on its face, the wings behind—was lifelike, exquisitely carved, like the work of a master sculptor.

Similar statues stood everywhere here—around the Square of the Gods, the gods themselves. Nothing unusual. The only thing was that this one was more detailed, and placed right at the entrance—slightly blocking the way.

Ang was about to walk around the statue, but when he passed beside it, he suddenly stopped, hesitating: "It's real."

"Real? What's real?" Negril asked, confused.

"A true Holy Spirit—petrified," Ang said.

Negril projected its consciousness into the statue's interior—and indeed "saw" clear structures of flesh, bone, and organs. A statue could never carve such internal details.

"So it's real—not stone. Petrified? What happened here?" Negril exclaimed.

If this was a true Holy Spirit, then with its height and wings, it was at least a six-winged Archangel.

And its wing structure matched Negril's guess: angels have only one pair of true wings; all others—four or six—are light-wings, which vanish upon petrification.

Why was a six-winged Archangel petrified here? Was heaven invaded? Or something else?

This was a six-winged Archangel capable of fighting Bone-Lock.

"It looks like it's carrying a weapon—look around, is there any weapon nearby?" Negril suddenly realized.

But it was overthinking—the surroundings were utterly empty, nothing at all. Some force must be at work—no dust, spotlessly clean, even a cleanup spirit would be unemployed here.

Negril fumed: "Carry the statue away! Kua Bada! This heaven is as poor as a ghost—no weapons, no gear, no treasure, no food—just immovable buildings. This trip is a total loss."

Ang collected the petrified angel.

They continued inward, entering the temple.

Finally, inside the temple, they found something different: a row of stone coffins, arranged in one chamber.

Ang lifted one lid—yep, a coffin. Inside lay a slender, pure white skeleton.

The current God of Knowledge had long since updated his knowledge of such bones—he recognized it instantly as a Holy Relic.

"All are one-meter-ninety first-tier angels—useless." Ang already had thousands of such Holy Relics—no value.

Speaking of Holy Relics, Negril immediately thought of those planted in the ground: "By the way, have any of the soul-planted Holy Relics produced a sentient soul?"

Ang shook his head.

"So hard?" Negril sighed in disappointment. They'd left the Palace of Rest nearly a year ago—yet not a single sentient soul had emerged from over a thousand Holy Relics?

Not just Holy Relics—even ordinary bones planted later had failed to produce sentient souls. Was generating a sentient soul really this difficult?

Then why had Ang casually picked up two?

Besides the Holy Relics, Ang found several metal eggs—fist-sized, engraved with intricate holy runes.

"Holy Spirit armor? So many?" Before them stood piles of crates, each holding six eggs—twenty crates total, many others empty.

"One hundred and twenty sets of Holy Spirit armor—huge haul! Quickly collect them—finally, we won't return empty-handed," Negril exclaimed happily.

One petrified angel statue, one hundred and twenty sets of Holy Spirit armor—these were Ang's entire spoils. Over the next few days, Ang scoured every corner of heaven—no further discoveries.

"Impossible. You said the one stealing your divine power was in a wind-blasted dimension—wasn't this it? Where's the one stealing your divine power? Could it be this little thing?" Negril looked at the little wraith on Ang's finger—the only moving thing left in the entire heaven.

Of course, a wraith competing with a pseudo-god for divine power? Even a scale could tell you that's impossible. So who was stealing Xiamala's divine power?

Xiamala shook her head firmly: "It's here. It's hiding from us."

"Hiding from us? Why? Whoever can steal your divine power should be able to chase us off—why hide?" Negril asked, surprised.

Xiamala frowned: "Why not hide? Even if I were ten times stronger, if I encountered something that could shatter the barrier, I'd hide too."

That made perfect sense. Put yourself in their place—you'd hide too. Who dares face Bone-Lock head-on?

"So the Light Gods didn't return—they're either reborn or newly born gods. Now what? If it keeps hiding, we'll never find it."

The Holy Heaven isn't small—every nook and cranny, every corridor, every building. If something is determined to hide, you'd need a thousand men to find it.

Obviously, we can't just wait here. Better return and think of another plan—but for now, we must wait until nightfall, when the Resting Wind rises, to see if another breach opens.

Waiting was boring. Ang stared at the greenery and gardens of the Square of the Gods, his fingers itching. Without a word, he ran over, summoned his scythe, and chopped down a giant tree.

"I… you… forget it. You want to cut down the garden to plant vegetables? You just cut down a Divine Tree—don't waste it. Collect it," Negril snapped, too exasperated to continue.

Still, it was fine—the garden had many Divine Trees. Cutting them all counted as a gain. Ang hadn't even thought of it—every blade of grass and tree here was valuable. Since nothing else was here, might as well chop trees.

"The floor tiles are valuable too. These holy runes, this material—Antoni would love them. Why not dig up a few?" Negril suggested.

Ang chopped down every Divine Tree, even uprooting several, and moved them into the Palace of Rest to see if they'd survive.

He also dug up a pile of floor tiles from the Square of the Gods, planning to sell them to Antoni—but as he dug, he realized: something was beneath the square.