Chapter 354: Gospel Washes the Soul

The Seed rolled twice in the esophagus, then fell silent.

Yan Ming waited ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Nothing happened.

He was even a bit disappointed—the Mask monster left without a word, just like a door‑to‑door health‑product scammer.

At the twenty‑first second, his stomach ignited.

It wasn't pain. It was heat. Boiling heat spreading from the stomach wall outward, coursing through the vessels into every limb and bone.

Yan Ming looked down at his hand; the veins beneath the skin bulged, turning from bluish‑purple to deep red, then black.

His shirt was being stretched open.

It wasn't muscle swelling—it was bone growth. The ribs arched outward, each one pressing against the skin, popping two shirt buttons. The left shoulder joint creaked, the scapula sharpened, nearly piercing the suit jacket.

On the back of Yan Ming's right hand, something was bulging.

A Bone Spike. Gray‑white with fine texture, drilling outward from beneath the skin on the back of his hand. The epidermis was lifted into a sharp, conical bump, thin enough to see the bone's grain.

In another half‑second the skin would break.

Yan Ming stared at the Bone Spike about to burst through.

His brain was racing at high speed. Not a fear‑driven stress response, but a professional habit—a conditioned reflex from twelve years of legal practice.

Analyze. Synthesize. Qualify.

He was about to lose control.

No.

If this continued, he would be no different in essence from those courtroom defendants he'd seen—emotion‑manipulated, shouting, hurling apples at lawyers.

"No."

Yan Ming spoke.

His voice emerged hoarse from his throat, yet the tone was absurdly steady.

"Can't do it."

He pressed the bump on the back of his right hand with his left. The Bone Spike pressed against his palm, sharp enough to cut the skin, blood seeping from between his fingers.

But he didn't release.

He pushed it back.

Physically, the action was meaningless. The Bone Spike grew from within, not inserted by force; pressing it wouldn't alter its growth direction.

But Yan Ming didn't care about physics.

He cared about order.

His order.

The bump on the back of his right hand halted. It pushed once, then again, as if testing. Then, slowly, millimeter by millimeter, it retracted.

His ribs also contracted. The soft tissue that had been stretched emitted a faint, moist sound; the bone outlines sank back beneath the flesh. The left shoulder joint snapped back into its normal angle.

The whole process lasted about forty seconds.

After forty seconds, Yan Ming stood where he was.

The suit was still the same suit. The shirt had lost two buttons, but the Windsor knot on his tie remained unmoving. His trouser crease was crisp, his shoes polished.

The only change—

His skin turned white.

Not a sickly pallor, not anemic, but a marble‑like white with a cold, luminous sheen. From face to neck to fingers, the hue was uniformly unnatural, as if a primer had been brushed over him from head to toe.

Yan Ming lifted his hand, turned it over to look at the palm, then the back.

The Bone Spike was gone entirely. Even the torn wound had healed, leaving only a faint pink scar.

He clenched his fist.

Power. From the finger bones to forearm to shoulder, each joint sent unfamiliar feedback. Not brute force, but precision—he could feel every minute twitch of his tendons and control the output of each muscle fiber bundle.

A theory lies dormant in the Federal Weird Investigation Bureau's internal files, known to only a few senior analysts who have touched the related theoretical models—

The Gospel Church's Weird Seed's metamorphosis is essentially a battle of wills. The Seed supplies power; the host provides the vessel. When the host's mental fortitude cannot bear the shock of transformation, reason collapses, the body goes out of control, becoming a pure violence machine.

But if the host possesses sufficiently strong self‑awareness—a complete, unshakable internal logical system—the metamorphosis is re‑encoded by that logic.

The power remains the same. But the expression is up to the host.

The more obsessive the rationality, the more extreme the sense of order, the more thorough the fusion.

It can even revert the body, fused with the Weird, back to human form.

Yan Ming knew none of these theories.

He only knew he was clearer than ever before.

The apartment still had no lights. Scattered defense briefs on the floor, a yellowed banner on the wall, the skyline beyond the window.

He stood in the darkness, tidied the shirt collar where the buttons had fallen off, and tightened the tie knot by a millimeter.

Then he turned to face the doorway.

He didn't go to open the door.

He didn't even move.

His body shifted to the side—like water seeping into a brick crack—and merged entirely into the wall's shadow.

Silently, without a sound.

Not even a breath of air arrived to fill the void his disappearance left.

Presiding Judge Zhao's villa is in the South City Emerald Lake Garden.

It's the third building of the Union Row, four and a half stories, with a private garden and an Underground Parking Garage.

All the residents around are mid‑level and above officials of the court system, the property fee exceeds ten thousand a year, and security patrols are continuous twenty‑four hours.

Presiding Judge Zhao is currently sitting in the Second Floor study drinking tea.

Tieguanyin. It's a Jian‑zhan cup, black glaze with oil droplets; a friend spent eighty thousand yuan at an auction to get it as his birthday gift.

This kind of cup is actually not very suitable for drinking tea, but it looks good on a desk.

The television is on, the volume set low. The news reports a new Weird incident discovered in some region, wording cautious, the footage all wide shots. Presiding Judge Zhao glances and changes the channel.

It has nothing to do with him.

What he cares about is tomorrow's trial schedule and the materials needed when the provincial high court assessment team comes to inspect next week. His case‑closure rate ranks in the city top three, and his average trial cycle is the shortest in the city. Those two figures will keep him safe for another three years.

As for today's case—

What was Zhou…? Zhou Desheng.

Life sentence. Pretty normal.

What's wrong with the surveillance? Surveillance is surveillance, classification is classification. The public security determined intentional homicide, the procuratorate charged intentional homicide, the first instance judged intentional homicide. He changed it to self‑defense in the second instance? What a joke. He's not the Supreme Court; he lacks both the nerve and the motive to stab this hole.

When the tea reached its third steep, the study light went out.

It didn't flicker. It went out.

Presiding Judge Zhao set the Jian‑zhan down, frowned, looked up at the ceiling recessed light; the bulb isn't broken, it just won't light.

"Which insurance tripped?" he muttered, reaching for the phone on the desk.

The phone is gone.

The desk is spotless, leaving only that Jian‑zhan and half of an unfinished "Criminal Trial Reference".

"What…"

Presiding Judge Zhao's voice gets stuck in his throat.

Because his study has vanished.

The desk remains. His chair remains. He himself remains.

But the four walls disappeared. The ceiling disappeared. The carpet disappeared. In their place—

A black marble floor, icy, reflecting his terrified face.

Two rows of towering empty gallery seats. Wooden railings polished to shine.

Directly ahead—a trial bench.

It's three times larger than the one in his court. The top is deep black, the wood grain unnaturally fine, the whole surface shows no seam at all.

A Gavel rests on the top.

The Gavel's handle is bone‑white, the head scarlet, covered with dense, flowing dark patterns.

A person stands behind the trial bench.

Suit. Tie. Marble‑textured pale skin.

Yan Ming looks down from above at Presiding Judge Zhao.

"You… who are you?" Presiding Judge Zhao sprang up from his chair, stepped back two paces. The marble floor beneath his feet was hard and slick; he staggered, nearly falling.

Yan Ming gave no answer.

He picked up the Gavel.

The bone‑white handle pressed against his palm, its temperature icy.

He struck once.

The sound was small, even light. Yet the whole space trembled. Circles of ripples spread across the black marble floor, as if a stone had been thrown onto water—no, not water, solid. The stone vibrated.

"Domain activation—"

"Absolute Court. Session begins."

Yan Ming's tone was exactly the same as when he makes a defense in a real courtroom—steady, clear, each word's breath carefully controlled.

"Defendant Zhao Zhong—"

"You're insane!" Presiding Judge Zhao's voice cracked, "I am the Presiding Judge of the Second Instance Collegial Panel! What are you doing? What are you? Call the police—"

"—As a judge, disregarding law, ignoring evidence, letting the result precede, reversing procedure."

Yan Ming continued reciting, uninterrupted.

It wasn't because his voice was louder.

It was because Zhao Zhong's mouth was sealed.

An unseen force pressed his lips together. Not stuck, but pressed. As if a hand clamped his jaw, forcing him silent.

Zhao Zhong's eyes bulged as if about to pop out. He clawed at his own mouth with both hands, his Nails digging into the lip flesh, drawing blood, yet his mouth would not open.

"Under this court's Rules, speaking requires permission."

Yan Ming's voice was neither salty nor bland.

"You've applied this Rule for so many years, Presiding Judge Zhao. When silencing the defense, you're already adept."

Zhao Zhong muttered "um‑um", his face flushed.

Yan Ming opened the dossier that materialized before him. The pages were semi‑transparent, the script glowing faintly, lines scrolling automatically.

"2039, Su ___ drug‑transport case. The defense raised procedural illegality; you refused to record it, citing 'unrelated to the case'. Verdict upheld."

"2040, Chen ___ intentional injury case. The medical appraisal conflicted with the injuries; the defense applied for a re‑examination, you dismissed it, citing 'sufficient evidence already'. Verdict upheld."

"2042, Zhou Desheng intentional homicide case—"

Yan Ming paused.

"Yes, that's today's. The complete evidence chain of self‑defense, you've already seen it."

He closed the dossier.

"And then you ruled to uphold the original verdict."

Zhao Zhong knelt on the marble floor, tears and snot streaming. His mouth was finally opened, and he shouted: "I have my difficulties—someone above greeted me—it wasn't just me—"

"The court reminds the defendant, court rule: any lie will be punished."

"I didn't—"

Zhao Zhong's right index finger broke.

A fracture. A clean transverse break. No external force touched him, no object hit him. The finger broke on its own.

Zhao Zhong's anguished scream echoed for three seconds in the pitch-black courtroom.

Yan Ming waited for him to catch his breath.

"Say it again. Someone above greeted you?"

Zhao Zhong trembled, his lips moving several times.

"...... None."

His voice was tiny like a mosquito's buzz. But this time, his finger didn't break.

"No one greeted you." Yan Ming finished his sentence for him, "You're just too lazy to change it. Overturning the verdict is too troublesome; it will affect your evaluation data. So you chose to stamp it."

Zhao Zhong said nothing.

Silence in the Absolute Court's rules equals acquiescence.

Yan Ming raised the gavel.

"Death penalty."

Zhao Zhong scrambled backward like a madman. The marble floor was too slippery; his palms and knees slipped, like a fish hauled ashore.

"Carry it out immediately."

The gavel fell.

Zhao Zhong's body was seized by an invisible force. Starting from the spine—twisting. Shoulder to the left, pelvis to the right, the whole torso was wrung out like a towel. Clothes tore first, then skin, then bones emitted a series of crackling snaps.

It didn't last long.

When the Absolute Court dissipated, Zhao Zhong's villa study returned to its original state. The light came back on. The Jian ware tea bowl remained on the table, the Iron Guanyin tea had gone cold.

On the floor appeared a grotesquely twisted mass.

Yan Ming stood beside it, lowering his head to look for two seconds.

Expressionless.

Then he thought of another person.

The family that threw apples in the courthouse corridor that afternoon.

No, not them.

It was Zhou Desheng.

The taxi driver who shouted at him from the defendant's bench, "You won't die a good death." He was framed—that's fact. He was sentenced to life imprisonment—that's also fact.

But when he had nowhere to turn, he chose to pour all his rage onto the only person who had helped him.

That too is fact.

Both are malignant tumors of ugliness that need to be excised.

Yan Ming merged into the shadows, disappearing into the villa's darkness.

Forty minutes later.

The Absolute Court descended again.

"Defendant Zhou Desheng. The court presently accuses his defense attorney of taking bribes. After the court's examination—"

Yan Ming flipped a page of the dossier.

"—the accusation is unfounded. Moreover, the defendant, knowing the accusation is false, still maliciously slanders the helper."

Zhou Desheng was pressed to the ground by an invisible force, his face full of terror. He was dragged from his dream in the detention center into this pitch-black courtroom, still unclear about the situation.

"You—you are Attorney Yan?"

Yan Ming did not answer him.

The gavel fell.

"Death penalty. Carry it out immediately."

Zhou Desheng's anguished scream was much shorter than Zhao Zhong's.

After it ended, Yan Ming stood in the center of the blood pool. A few drops spattered his suit; he took out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his cuffs.

Outside the window, the moon hung in the firmament.

Moonlight streamed through the cracked glass window of the detention center, falling on his marble-like face.

Yan Ming lifted his head.

"This is fairness."

He folded the handkerchief neatly and put it back in his pocket.

"Gospel, it will cleanse every inch of the filthy soul."