Chapter 522: It Was Just a Hallucination

"Boss! Something's wrong!"

A frantic, hurried voice slammed open the prayer room's door, like a stone thrown into still water, shattering the lingering prayer atmosphere inside.

De Laike opened his eyes.

He was kneeling before a crude wooden cross, hands clasped, lips slightly moving, preserving the mouth shape of the last syllable before the interruption.

The room was small, its furnishings simple—a table, a chair, the undecorated cross on the wall, and the Holy Bible spread open on the table, its pages frayed.

Everything conformed to the Protestant principle of "plain worship."

Protestantism, the most dangerous and unstable branch of Christianity, stems from its core doctrines of "justification by faith" and "everyone can be a priest."

Protestantism holds that believers can communicate directly with God without the church or a priest as an intermediary.

This "decentralization" and "individualism" make it prone to internal splits over differing interpretations of doctrine.

For example, Protestantism emphasizes the Holy Bible as the sole authority, yet different people may interpret it in vastly different ways, easily giving rise to extreme or heretical ideas.

Moreover, because they firmly believe they can converse with God, they naturally assume such messages are divine instructions, even going so far as to found a new sect—often an extreme cult...

Cult groups often masquerade under the Protestant banner, exploiting the "everyone can preach" trait to spread twisted doctrines and deceive unsuspecting crowds.

All these factors combine to make it extremely chaotic and unstable.

De Laike, however, is a Protestant who firmly believes he can converse with God and receive divine guidance and favor.

He thought.

If God hadn't favored him, how could he have risen from a street thug to today's gang leader?

Moreover, he had personally communicated with God—he had seen God!

Now.

His greatest regret was that he hadn't gone to the Vatican to meet that Saint.

De Laike didn't turn around immediately.

He slowly closed the Holy Bible in his hands, placed it neatly back on the table, then turned his face aside and glanced at the panting junior.

"Stay calm before God," he said, his voice unexpectedly steady, even tinged with the displeasure of a holy Ritual being disturbed:

"What happened?"

The junior leaned on the doorframe, his chest heaving violently, clearly having run at least three streets to deliver the news.

He swallowed, gathered his words, then spoke:

"At the nightclub on Rick Street... someone came to wreck the place!"

De Laike's brows twitched.

"That guy," the junior's voice still trembled, unsure whether from running or fear:

"He kept shouting something like 'you are sinful'... firing shot after shot, killing all our men... killing all our men!"

"All killed?" De Laike's voice rose slightly.

"Most of them! Most of them!" the junior hurriedly added, his speed increasing:

"Keloduo is dead, Thompson is dead, and over twenty brothers are dead! That bastard Zhanmusi is kneeling on the ground, too scared to move!"

"That guy was holding a pistol, but the bullets seemed endless! Bang—bang—bang, it kept firing, and our men fell one after another!"

His voice was tinged with sobbing.

"Boss! If we don't act, the Blood Wolf Gang will be wiped out by him!"

De Laike sprang to his feet.

His face twisted instantly, the previously shepherd-like composure vanishing without a trace, replaced by a fury provoked to its limit.

"What?!"

He shoved the junior aside in one motion, strode toward the door, and roared as he went:

"What are you still standing around for?! Fuck! This damn thing is a fanatical believer!"

He ripped open the collar button, drew a silver-plated Desert Eagle from his waist, its barrel engraved with the words—"God's judgment requires a sense of Ritual."

"Tell the brothers to bring their gear! Call everyone who can move!"

His voice echoed down the corridor like an enraged beast, "Kill him! Tomorrow morning I want to see his corpse hanging—"

Bang!

A deafening blast rang from behind him.

It wasn't a gunshot.

It was the sound of the door panel being ripped open, crashing against the wall and shattering.

De Laike's voice abruptly stopped.

He whirled around sharply.

At the far end of the corridor, the Wooden Door of the prayer room, once tightly shut, now lay completely ajar, its panel hanging crookedly on the sole remaining hinge, teetering.

A silhouette stood in the doorway, backlit by the dim outside light, its outline blurred, the face entirely hidden in shadow.

Footsteps sounded.

One step, two steps, three steps...............

The figure stepped inside, entering the pool of light cast by the prayer room's dim yellow chandelier.

The shadow receded from his face like a reef revealed after the tide ebbs.

De Laike's gaze fell on the face.

His pupils snapped shut, and a brief gasp escaped his throat.

The Desert Eagle, not yet even kissed, slipped from his hand with a clang, striking the floor.

His knee buckled uncontrollably.

Not from fear.

At least it's not all.

It's because of that face, the face he has watched countless times in videos, photos, Vatican reports, studied repeatedly, and longed to see in person—

"Saint…" his lips trembled:

"Saint… Yu Lin?"

"It's me."

Yu Lin calmly stepped past the two and entered the modest yet oddly devout chapel.

His gaze swept over the wooden cross on the wall, over the frayed Holy Bible on the table, and finally settled on the solitary chair.

He sat down.

The chair faced De Laike, who was kneeling on the floor, and his back was directly toward the cross.

Yu Lin crossed his legs, rested his hands casually on the armrests, and his eyes fell on De Laike's completely bloodless face.

"I heard you have communicated with God?"

De Laike's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

Sweat slid from his temple, ran down his cheek, and dripped onto the floor, forming a small puddle.

He opened his mouth, and his voice carried a hint of flattery:

"Y‑yes, Saint… Saint Yu Lin, sir."

"I… I talk to God every night; he… he guides me, watches over me, turning me from a… a petty thug into who I am today… today…"

He could not continue.

Under Yu Lin's steady gaze, the title "Blood Wolf Gang leader" seemed absurdly trivial.

"Hm?" Yu Lin raised an eyebrow, a faint trace of interest flickering on his face.

"Now, communicate with me once and show me."

De Laike was stunned.

But Yu Lin only stared at him, showing no intention of retracting his words.

Silence lasted three seconds.

De Laike moved.

He trembled as he got up, bracing against the wall to barely steady himself.

Staggering, he shuffled to the unremarkable metal rack in the corner, crouched, and his trembling fingers fiddled with the combination lock.

Click.

The safety deposit box door sprang open.

De Laike pulled out an object from inside.

It was a syringe.

The barrel held about ten milliliters of light‑blue transparent liquid, glowing faintly in the dim light.

Yu Lin's eyebrows lifted a bit higher.

De Laike turned, met Yu Lin's gaze, and instinctively wanted to explain— but Yu Lin asked nothing, so he dared not speak.

He simply held the syringe, and without any hesitation, plunged the needle into his left arm.

The light‑blue liquid slowly entered his bloodstream.

Only five seconds passed.

De Laike's body began to tremble.

At first it was a slight shiver, like a person standing in a cold wind.

Then the shaking intensified, his teeth chattered, producing a clacking sound.

His eyes widened dramatically, pupils dilating rapidly under the light, nearly filling the sockets.

Then he began to weep.

Not tears of sorrow, not tears of fear—just an uncontrollable, physiological flow of tears.

The tears slid down his cheek, dripping onto the floor and mixing with the earlier sweat.

He fell to his knees.

Not kneeling toward Yu Lin, his body twisted at an angle, facing the empty wall.

He clasped his hands, lifted his head, and his voice was full of devotion:

"God… my Lord!"

"Please grant me your Blessing! Let me become a Saint! My Lord… I am willing to give you everything! I will cleanse this sinful land for you! I…"

He addressed the empty wall, the silent cross, tears streaming down his face, his words incoherent.

Yu Lin watched him.

He watched this middle‑aged man kneeling to the air, praying to the void, pouring his heart out to an imagined "God".

He twitched the corner of his mouth, feeling utterly speechless.

Damn, so it was just too much enhancer, causing a hallucination?