Chapter 282: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

Plague, War, Famine, and Undead are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse according to the Church of Light; their arrival brings cataclysmic disasters.

The Undead Empire firmly denies the last one, claiming their undead calamity is merely a method of war, controllable and not within the scope of natural disasters—but anyone who disobeys will surely be brought to apocalypse by them.

Whether the Undead Empire acknowledges it or not is irrelevant; what matters is that everyone believes it, and alongside undead calamity, plague, war, and famine are all terrifying disasters, with plague being the worst.

Once, a region suffered a severe plague, killing two-thirds of its population of tens of millions; all administrative systems collapsed, and only isolated villages and towns survived.

Since then, the region has become a patchwork of hundreds of autonomous city-states, each ruled by its own lord or governor, with a total population of just a few million yet over six hundred city-states—each ruler's domain smaller than a single town in a great empire.

This region is now called the Bird Alliance, meaning a nest full of countless city-states.

The reason for this political structure is plague.

The Church of Light expanded across the Prime Material Plane and became a dominant religion largely because of plague, as its holy light possesses unique purifying properties, and the most effective way to combat plague is purification.

Clean water, food, clothing, bedding, and living environments reduce plague spread; holy light can destroy plague's source—thus, wherever the Church of Light is present, plague is contained; elsewhere, it runs wild.

Under these conditions, gods of redemption, harvest, disease, or healing are useless; the key to stopping plague is isolation and purification, controlling the source and preventing spread.

Over time, people converted to the Church of Light; those who refused either retreated into isolated regions to govern themselves or died out entirely.

Plague, war, and famine often reinforce each other: plague causes famine, famine sparks war, and war triggers more plague and famine—once out of control, the world descends into chaos.

Antony worked tirelessly to suppress famine, preventing it from spiraling out of control, especially to avoid triggering war and plague—but it seemed useless: followers of the Harvest Goddess became infected and carried the plague to another plane.

Plague has another troubling aspect: unpredictability. No one knows what form the next plague will take; unlike war or famine, which can be anticipated by stockpiling food and gear, plague cannot.

Right now, the patient spat out a heap of bloody matter and collapsed dead; Dackwen racked his brain but could not identify this plague.

Is this a new plague? If so, trouble looms—many may die before a cure is found.

At such times, the God of Knowledge must intervene; Negril confidently approached, took one look, and immediately frowned: "What plague is this? I've never seen it."

If even the God of Knowledge has never seen it, it must be a new plague.

"I don't recognize it—definitely a new plague. Anyone else know? If not, I'll start researching." Negril looked around.

He glanced at Luna, at Lisa, at Lamor—but not at Ang, because this wasn't a farming issue; Ang wouldn't know.

"Worms," Ang stepped forward, glanced, and said.

"Worms? What worms? You recognize this plague? Get lost, don't interfere—this is plague, not fertilizer for your crops." Negril snapped.

This skeleton was obsessed—everything connected to worms. Had he run out of fertilizer again?

Ang ignored him, stomped hard on the spot, and the bright red slime rapidly changed, forming countless tiny dots.

These dots were minuscule—smaller than mosquitoes—but alive, darting swiftly, then crawling, emerging from the slime, taking flight—yet flying no more than thirty centimeters before dying under Ang's Death Aura, falling like raindrops.

Soon, a pile of tiny flying insects accumulated on the ground, each as fine as dust, yet so numerous they piled higher and higher.

Negril gasped, recalling the bandit once mistaken for an egg-laying vessel when he'd last encountered a Bug Master.

When Ang had slashed open that bandit, a heap of finger-sized eggs had burst out—could this red slime also be eggs, just too small to see, appearing as a lump of slime?

As the worms hatched continuously, the slime diminished; when only a trace remained, Ang crushed his Death Aura.

Without the Death Aura's acceleration, the hatched worms took flight, no longer dying instantly, instead seeking living things.

But Ang reactivated his Death Aura—living things fled hundreds of meters away; only non-living things remained nearby. Finally, Ang fished a live fish from the canal and tossed it over.

The worms sensed the living flesh and swarmed it, piercing it with their mouthparts.

Ang walked over, touched the fish with his finger, and soon, the fish spat out a heap of bright red slime.

Negril's face turned pale: "Can every worm lay eggs? Then every single one is a transmission source?"

Previously, the creatures used as egg vessels had their eggs implanted by Bug Masters—but now, every worm can lay eggs; after spreading, every living thing they bite becomes an egg vessel—their spread rate dwarfs any past insect plague.

Moreover, these eggs are microscopic, invisible to the naked eye, easily mistaken for slime; if not incinerated immediately, they hatch into new transmission sources.

Negril realized the situation was dire: among those transported here, countless must have been bitten by these worms. These insects, smaller than mosquitoes, leave no noticeable bite—so many people likely already carry eggs inside them.

Followers of the Harvest Goddess are already infected in unknown numbers—what of the Prime Material Plane? In famine-stricken regions, how many have already been infected?

If they cannot be cured before spitting slime, the moment they spit slime, they die.

In fact, even before spitting slime, when their skin turns pale and symptoms appear, their bodies are already extensively damaged—curing them won't reverse the irreversible harm.

"What do we do? Your Death Aura can't kill them inside the body—it only accelerates hatching. Is there any cure? This isn't an insect plague anymore—it's a worm epidemic. If we can't stop it, two-thirds of the Prime Material Plane will die." Negril spoke, deeply troubled.

Ang tilted his head, thought, then pulled out a bottle: "Try this."

PS: There's more this morning.