Chapter 306

As a religion with over ten thousand years of history, the Church of Light is riddled with factions, some of which are utterly hostile to each other.

The term "heretic" once specifically referred to dissenters within the same religion, and often, heretics were more hated than pagans.

After the Gods of Light disappeared, outsiders saw the Church of Light as united, steadfast, and resolute—but any sensitive insider could sense the hidden currents swirling beneath.

Even someone as simple as Xiamala could sense the gods had vanished—could no one else feel it? With so many holy maidens in the Church of Light, why did only Xiamala speak out? Where were the others?

After Heaven was blocked, the Holy Spirit Angels kept jumping out one after another to deliver themselves—without Holy Spirits, how did the other holy maidens summon spirit possession?

Xiamala's Fallen Angel was made by her—were others' angels made by themselves too? If not, where did these angels come from?

Anthony has a foolhardy Holy Spirit Angel, and the Silver Knights have foolhardy angels too—do not Dyson and Gulliani have any?

Could someone exploit their foolhardy nature to breed Holy Spirits on a massive scale?

Anthony split the Church, yet the Papacy did nothing—offered no proper solution, barely even issued a condemnation.

Everything points to one truth: the seemingly harmonious Church of Light has long been fractured into factions, and among them, Dyson's Firestealers are the most vile.

When humanity lost divine restraint, inner greed took over. The founder of the Firestealers is lost to history—likely around nine hundred years ago, someone discovered the gods' disappearance, and a new flame of faith was born.

The Firestealers secretly hid this flame of faith.

After a while, he found he suffered no divine punishment.

The Firestealers immediately grew bolder, attempting to seize the flame and make themselves into new gods.

But this was no easy task—even preserving the flame was difficult, and one man alone could not manage it.

So he brought his followers into the fold.

From then on, the Firestealers became an organization, recruiting members from within the Church of Light, united by the shared goal of becoming gods.

With the flame of faith present, recruiting members was effortless. The Firestealers preferred quality over quantity, maintaining a small number—but every member was a high-ranking Church official.

Yet igniting divine fire was never easy—even with the flame of faith, it was as hard as climbing to heaven. Nine hundred years later, by Dyson's generation, not a single true god had been born—only a false god who stole faith: the Firestealers.

But organizations have their advantages: Firestealer members were all high-ranking Church officials, forming a tight circle, sharing resources, advancing together, rising step by step—like a mutual brotherhood within a thieves' guild—so it never disbanded.

By Dyson's generation, nine hundred years had passed. Over those centuries, more than just one or two flames of faith had been collected; many had gone out over time, unable to ignite. Five still remained.

Becoming a god remained distant, but with the example of a false god, everyone remained fiercely motivated.

After centuries of handling the flame of faith, the Firestealers developed methods to use it—but most were useless, mere dead weight. The only truly powerful one was Godslayer.

When a different divine power strikes you, even a god will suffer. If it cannot be purged, the damage persists. When the flame of faith grows strong enough, it can even burn a god to ash.

Yet the theory is beautiful, the reality cruel: there are no gods left in the world.

So the Godslayer flame had been researched for centuries without a suitable target—until Harvey of the Abyss took a hit.

As an undead, Harvey could not purge the flame of faith—but for the small soul-spirits with the same divine origin, the flame was a supreme tonic.

If Dyson knew his Godslayer flame had been easily purged, what would he think?

He thought the Firestealers had hidden deep enough—but now it seemed every move they made had been seen by Gulliani. Gulliani knew everything about them, even effortlessly ignited his divine fire—was this not a miracle?

"W-why do this?" Dyson asked, confused. "What benefit do you gain from igniting my divine fire?"

"Didn't I say? You could've gone yourself, but your power is insufficient—I merely strengthened you a bit. Now that you have divine power, can you bring me the corpses of the Abyss Wanderers?" Gulliani asked.

"Really?" Dyson hesitated. "No oath required?"

"No, no—you're a god now. Every vow you make is a divine vow. How could you casually swear a divine vow? Even if we need to make agreements later, they'll be alliance pacts—we'll all become one of the Gods of Light," Gulliani said.

Could such good fortune exist? Dyson said: "Then I'll leave now. I'll bring back the Abyss Wanderers' corpses."

Saying this, Dyson walked slowly toward the door. Along the way, he raised his vigilance to the maximum—but he left the Papacy unharmed, passing through without obstruction, teleporting safely back to his territory.

"Did they really let me go? Did they really ignite my divine fire?" Dyson opened his palm, staring at the divine power sizzling in his palm—it still felt unbelievable.

Why would Gulliani do this? He's not even his father—why help him ignite divine fire? What does he want?

He let him leave with no constraints at all—doesn't he fear that now, with divine power, Dyson might seize the Papacy?

Dyson racked his brain, his head nearly bursting—but he didn't forget his mission. He summoned his adjutant: "Increase intelligence gathering. Prepare for war. We're exterminating those Abyss Wanderers."

"Huh? When?" the adjutant asked.

"Thirty, fifty, seventy years—anyway, we must show posture. When to strike? Wait for the right moment," Dyson said.

This was also what puzzled him: Gulliani demanded no promise, imposed no constraints—so the initiative was entirely in Dyson's hands. He could strike whenever he wished. Prepare for decades—wouldn't Gulliani be dead by then?

Unless Gulliani was confident he could control Dyson—but how, Dyson didn't know.

When Dyson called upon his master, something strange happened.

…

Hundreds of dragon corpses were transported back to the Resting Abyss, standing upright like a dish called "Staring at the Starry Sky."

Night fell. The Wind of Rest stirred, wailing softly. By morning, over a dozen corpses had sprouted soul-fire, staggering as if trying to rise.

But dragons were too large—seven or eight meters long. The soul-fire generated overnight was insufficient to move these bodies.

At this point, Ange had to step in: engrave soul marks, connect to the soul network, bury them in the Resting Soil. After ten days, twenty dragons could stagger to their feet.

After spawning twenty dragons, Ange stopped. Dammit, this thing drains soul energy like crazy.

If he wanted to activate all three hundred flying dragons, he'd have to spend the entire next year doing nothing else—no more Death Aura, no more Divine Fist, not even elemental conversion.

"Fine, fine," Negrilis grumbled. "You spend a whole year, and you get three hundred undead flying dragons. What's not to like?"

Don't be fooled—Ange's roar wiped them out, but that was the Dragon God's might, not their true strength. If they truly fought, the entire Meishencheng might be destroyed. Just dropping incendiary oil from the sky would be enough to cause chaos.

Now Ange looks down on these dragons? Won't even spend a year's soul energy?

Compared to soul energy, live dragons weren't a food problem—the fish in Xianshuihu could easily feed tens of thousands. Confined to Huxindao, they fished for themselves, living freely.

Wanting to raise dead dragons but lacking enough corpses, she was sent to Huxindao to raise live ones—and become an excellent beast doctor.

"Flying dragons get sick easily eating raw, cold food. You must treat them. If they die, I'll deduct your pay," Lisha instructed, teaching her the Purifying Face Technique.

"Deduct away. You never paid me anyway. If they die, just turn them into zombies and give me more to raise," Liu said indifferently.

Makes sense. Go. If they die, you save money.

With the goal of saving money, over a hundred flying dragons were handed to Liu, who had zero breeding experience. Over time, not a single dragon died—many female dragons even laid eggs.

Unlike chickens, which lay eggs regardless of fertilization, female flying dragons only lay fertilized eggs.

…

Around Huxindao, rows of floating gel-boards were anchored on the water's surface. Ange stood on shore, rapidly drilling holes into each board, sowing seeds, then pushing them into the water. Once enough boards accumulated, he strung them together and dragged them to distant waters to anchor.

After one full cycle, the shores of Huxindao were covered with endless, undulating gel-board floating islands.

Negrilis flew around Ange, bored: "Aren't we going to find out who ignited the divine fire? Another god has appeared in the main plane."

Ange shook his head, utterly uninterested.

"True—you've ignited divine fire twice yourself, so it's nothing new. But spending your days planting crops? So boring. Can't you find something new to do?" Negrilis asked again.

Ange pointed at the gel-boards: "New."

"...'Xianshui' soilless rice? That's new? Grow some fruit, that'd be new... ah, no, no, I mean something you've never done before—not another crop!" Seeing Ange pull out fruit seeds, Negrilis slapped his own paw, quickly correcting himself.

Ange looked at the fruit seeds in his hand. Isn't 'Xianshui' fruit new?

Doesn't matter if it's new—plant it.

Ange crouched down, studying techniques for growing fruit in Xianshui and soilless cultivation.

Negrilis wanted to tie a knot in his own neck and strangle himself. Why did he bring this up?

Now Ange had found something fun—he wouldn't move for at least ten days. But Negrilis was so bored.

A loud, piercing dragon roar echoed. All flying dragons—whether soaring in the sky or perched on trees—simultaneously rose or descended, turning toward the sound.

But... dragons don't roar like that!!! Negrilis laughed and cried.

But does it matter? The dragons had grown accustomed to this sound—for them, "ao ao ao" was dragon roar.

A streak of silver light shot past. Lisha didn't wait for Baihou to land—she leapt off the dragon's back, urgently telling Ange: "My lord, my lord, it's bad! War has broken out—every country is fighting!"

Famine, plague, war—these are the legendary disasters of the end times. They rarely appear alone; they always come together. Famine sparks war, war brings plague, plague causes famine.

When famine began, everyone expected war to follow. Not every leader, like Anthony, was using every trick to relieve the suffering.

The poor, destitute and hungry, were driven from their homes by lords and nobles—for failing to pay this year's taxes.

The landlord's thugs seized the farmer's last sack of grain. The farmer pleaded: "Please, have mercy. This is our family's last food—you take it, we'll starve."

The landlord replied: "What do I care if you starve? You farm, I collect taxes—that's my sacred right granted by the gods."

Landless farmers, starving beggars—numbers grew. They wandered, becoming refugees.

City gates slammed shut, refusing them entry. They drifted to villages, devouring every edible thing. Villagers who once held out could no longer endure—they joined the refugees, moving on to devour elsewhere.

To understand the continent's shifting situation, ask Anthony—he knew best. Bored out of his mind, Negrilis immediately suggested bringing Anthony in to ask.

"If only the refugees had been properly aided, preventing their spread, the situation wouldn't have escalated. But the Uss Kingdom's leadership is clearly stoking the fire, letting the crisis worsen. Now they're driving refugees toward the western border of Rosha Kingdom."

Anthony spoke with calm understanding: "Clearly, the Uss Kingdom is deliberately creating refugees, then driving them into Rosha Kingdom."

Negrilis gasped: "Are they insane? Creating refugees in their own country and dumping them into another? What's the point?"

"Oh, countless advantages. Reduces population pressure, frees up more land, lets lords and nobles profit together. Massive refugee waves mean cheap labor—many will sell children, sell themselves into slavery just to survive."

"Second, the flood of refugees burdens Rosha Kingdom, dragging it down. Plant spies among them, stir up dissent, create chaos."

"If Rosha Kingdom tries to aid them, they'll be overwhelmed. If they ignore them, imprison them, and let some starve—Uss Kingdom gains an excuse to invade. Even the Church can't easily mediate."

Negrilis stared, stunned: "Why? Why do this? Aren't these refugees' lives worth anything? Even if you ignore life, population has value—why deliberately kill them?"

Anthony sighed: "For nobles and landlords hungry for land, population has no value. Too many people? As long as there's land, next year you'll find more farmers—even cheaper slaves."

Here, Anthony slammed his hand down, furious: "This is the failure of the Western Diocese. They should've restrained these greedy bastards. Damn it."

The Church isn't always evil—it often restrains things even worse than itself.

"The ruler of Rosha Kingdom is inherently kinder—they'll likely accept the refugees. But it's a famine year. With no surplus grain, Rosha Kingdom can't do much. Oh, right—Lisha is the princess of Rosha Kingdom. Before becoming a holy maiden, she was the first in line to the throne."