Chapter 285

"Shamara, the Fallen Saintess, the Fallen Angel has come!" The crowd erupted in terrified screams.

The Fallen Angel Shamara once dominated the realm's hotspot rankings for a long time; her corrupted legion instilled dread in all hearts.

After a lifetime of devotion to the Light, what would it feel like to suddenly encounter someone who could corrupt your faith—someone who, once tainted by her, would no longer be pure, no longer recognized by the Light?

It was like suddenly seeing a minotaur charging at you with a broom dipped in a manure bucket—just imagining it made your scalp crawl.

For a time, Shamara became the most feared entity among all followers of the Light; everyone memorized her features and fled the moment they saw her.

Now, this terrifying figure flew swiftly toward them, her two massive black wings flapping, leaving a trail of black vapor behind.

Arriving above Anthony, Shamara slowly beat her wings, her eyes radiating black light, a smile on her lips, shouting loudly: "Foolish mortals, prayer cannot save you. Awaken! Follow me, and shatter the Light's chains!"

This nonsensical, almost declarative speech terrified the faithful, who trembled, fearing that even listening too long would corrupt them.

Only Anthony felt awkwardly tempted to pick his toes—where had Shamara copied these lines? Even if she'd copied them, her delivery was terrible, nearly slipping into operatic tone; if she spoke another sentence, she'd surely give herself away.

Fortunately, she didn't need to say more—a booming voice echoed across the sky: "Be silent, fallen soul! How dare you profane the Light? The Black Angel of the Ascetic An, here to judge you!"

With that voice, another Fallen Angel—clad in Holy Spirit armor, face masked, back bearing two pairs of black wings—shot in at high speed from afar.

Black Angel? Ascetic? An?

While everyone was still bewildered, the Black Angel and Shamara clashed violently—each strike, each motion, unleashed powerful energy shocks, undeniable and real; even kilometers away, they could feel the staggering force of their battle.

Merely the residual shockwaves striking the ground overturned many; after a few rounds, no one doubted their strength.

The two-winged Shamara was no match for the four-winged Black Angel; as the fight dragged on, she fled in disarray, and the Black Angel pursued relentlessly, both vanishing at the end of the river valley.

Seeing this, Anthony raised his arms and shouted: "Excellent! It is the Black Angel of Ascetic An, come to rescue us! They must have come by divine will! Thank the gods! The Light is supreme!"

Though he shouted these words, Anthony's mind couldn't help but grumble: "Damn it! Who came up with this alias? So lazy—just drop one character?"

The faithful first froze, then rejoiced—Anthony's words had just defined the Black Angel's allegiance: the Black Angel was on their side?

"Thank the gods! The Light is supreme! Thank the gods! The Light is supreme!" They spontaneously cheered.

Amidst the cheers, a human cloaked in a cloak slowly walked through the air, stepping over the crowd until he reached Anthony's side.

Anthony quickly ordered the shield dropped, stepped forward two paces, and bowed excitedly: "Shepherd beneath the Light, Anthony greets Lord An."

Good heavens—amidst hundreds of thousands of Light followers, he was bowing to the Immortal God himself. Just thinking about it sent shivers down his spine. What if his identity was exposed—would these faithful tear them apart?

Ang nodded, offered no return bow, and said directly: "Gather the sick."

Though Ang appeared utterly dismissive, none around him felt insulted or thought it unreasonable.

Ascetics are ascetics—these people spend their days in relentless self-discipline. If they knew proper etiquette, that would be the real oddity. Not only was he sent by "divine decree," but even if he were merely going to the latrine, he wouldn't greet the Pope.

Ascetics hold transcendent status, yet stand entirely outside the Church, subject to no one's authority.

Some ascetics spend their entire lives in self-discipline, never setting foot in human society; others take students without notifying the Church, so no one ever records their identities.

With such freedom, wouldn't someone impersonate an ascetic?

No, because their Holy Light is God's certification—their power is God's own.

In theory, ascetics endure self-discipline to strengthen their bodies to bear God's power and walk the world as His vessels.

Anyone attempting to impersonate them would be easily exposed, for true ascetics have no desires or emotions; any trace of craving for power or status proves them false.

Those who seek promotion or wealth won't impersonate ascetics; those who crave pleasure won't either. Only those with ulterior motives would try—but they would never earn God's approval.

An ascetic who cannot wield Holy Light is a fraud.

Yet Ang, this impostor, lives a harder life than any true ascetic—he has no desires, no breath, and his Holy Light is purer than any genuine one.

While the sick were being gathered, Ang hurled a sphere of Holy Light onto the crimson slime, purifying it completely, then hurled more spheres onto the patients who had vomited it.

The patients were already dead, but only recently—still not fully gone; at least, Ang could sense their consciousness had not yet dispersed.

With nothing better to do, Ang first cast Purify Visage, healing their damaged organs, then gathered lightning elements and pressed them against the chest, releasing them.

The corpse, electrocuted by Ang, sat upright with a gasp, heart resumed beating, and came back to life.

Ang himself was surprised—he'd once used this technique on Negrilis and had to exert tremendous effort, because the Bronze Dragon's magic resistance was too high; he'd had to shove his hand down its throat to discharge from within.

He hadn't expected humans to have such low magic resistance—it worked instantly.

What was this? The legendary Resurrection Art! A miracle! The surrounding faithful dropped to their knees in a wave; even Anthony's legs trembled, nearly joining them.

Many patients with infection symptoms were gathered; Ang scanned them once and classified their conditions into four stages: mild, severe, critical, and urgent.

Mild meant no symptoms—these people hadn't been brought here, but no one needed to guess: among the crowd, countless such asymptomatic carriers must exist.

Severe meant symptoms had appeared; those gathered were all at least severe.

Critical meant organ damage—even if the worms were purified, their organs were too damaged to sustain life.

Urgent meant they were about to vomit slime.

Ang quickly healed the dozen or so urgent cases, then pulled out insecticide and handed it to Anthony: "Administer at different ratios."

Anthony nodded and passed it to his guard captain: "Administer at different ratios."

The guard captain nodded and passed it to his subordinates: "Administer at different ratios."

After Anthony shot him a murderous glare, the guard finally dared not pass it further—he pulled a few men aside and mixed it himself. Originally, he'd planned to hand it to the cooks—mixing and diluting was their specialty.

Sawwa had already written the ratios on paper; adding water was enough. Soon, different concentrations of the solution were prepared.

The severe cases were divided into dozens of groups, each with seven or eight patients, each group receiving the same concentration.

The group given 1% showed no reaction; the 50% group immediately foamed at the mouth—three died on the spot, four others lay barely breathing.

But Ang had prepared in advance—he unleashed a continuous barrage of Holy Light, saving the dead and purifying the worm-plague within them.

With Ang's protection, the patients no longer resisted the experiments; some even hoped to worsen, just to receive his healing and bask in Holy Light.

After careful comparison, Ang determined that a 3% concentration was most effective against severe cases without harming the body.

The same concentration worked on critical cases too, but required a healer present—otherwise, even after purging the worm-plague, the patient would still die.

Now came the moment to display miracles.

For the next five days, Ang remained there, tirelessly healing the critical patients with damaged organs. Though the Purify spell was weak, its continuous, nonstop release for five days straight—without rest—was, in the eyes of the faithful, a miracle: Long live Lord An, the Ascetic!

While Ang worked tirelessly, he approached a patient lying on the ground. As he knelt down, the patient suddenly surged up and punched Ang's face.

Ang reacted instantly, grabbing the fist in his hand.

The patient grinned eerily: " meddling fool, the Worm God greets you. Offer your flesh as sacrifice."

As he spoke, his hand melted, engulfing Ang's palm and surging upward.