Chapter 513: Ascending to S Ji

In the factory ruins, the flesh‑and‑blood Holy Sound still sings.

That grotesque creation, formed from countless believers' piled flesh and blood, hangs above the furnace, its layered mouths never ceasing.

The hymn flows from those mouths, not as sound but as Rules, a corrupting command that acts directly on the essence of life.

Even the three vanguard members who rushed out earlier, though pushed away from the workshop by shadow hands, still feel the hymn's lingering echo like a festering wound; the skin beneath their protective suits softens and flows in large patches.

Inside the workshop, Jiang Yuan kneels on one knee in the blood pool.

Or rather, in what was once a pool of blood. Now that dark liquid spreads rapidly outward from his knee, solidifying into a viscous, almost solid black gel.

The cracked wounds on his exposed skin no longer bleed. The edges of the rolled flesh seep black, ink‑like patterns; where the patterns pass, decay halts, and the broken flesh is resewn and woven by invisible threads.

He lifts his head.

The hymn pours into his eardrums, penetrates his skull, and churns in his mind. The Rule Power that would melt an ordinary person into a pool of blood at a single syllable now lands on him, bringing only a tinnitus‑like buzzing pressure. Beneath his skin, the black patterns pulse faintly; each beat offsets a fraction of the hymn's erosion.

"Ho…."

A fragment of shattered breath rolls from his throat. It is not pain, but something deeper awakening. He feels something inside his body completely pried open—not the borrowed, barely‑controlled power of before, but an instinct that originally belonged to him, long sealed, now freed as the shackles shatter.

The Fierce Ghost phantoms he saw when his consciousness sank into the Abyss—Spider Humanoid's compound eyes, The Butcher's iron hook, Rain Night Butcher's raincoat—did not vanish. They were "pressed" down into deeper darkness, like beasts suppressed at the bottom of a pool. And now the one who controls this Abyss is his own Shadow.

That Shadow, standing beside him in endless darkness, wholly formed from his own will.

Jiang Yuan props himself up on his knee and stands.

The movement is slow, his kneecap grinding against the solidified black clot with a faint creak. Yet he steadies himself. Spine straight, shoulders spread; even though his body is drenched in blood and his young face still bears the terrifying, pitted scars of melted flesh forcibly reshaped, his gaze has changed.

No longer the tight, death‑bound resolve of before.

It has become a… tranquil overview.

Like standing in his own backyard, watching a swarm of buzzing flies.

He raises his right hand.

The hand's joints are distinct, its skin covered with flowing black patterns. He spreads his five fingers and gently grasps the still‑singing flesh‑and‑blood creation.

Not the previous "borrowed" use of Fierce Ghost's primordial power.

But a more direct, fundamental "command".

"Close your mouth."

The two words are quiet, even a bit hoarse.

Yet across the entire workshop, it sounds as if someone pressed a mute button.

The hymn… stops.

That Zhun S Ji construct formed from believers' fused flesh and blood has its Core's "sound propagation" medium completely cut off.

Not by covering ears or building sound‑proof walls, but by stripping, on a conceptual level, its right to "emit sound."

The construct twists and convulses violently. Countless mouths open and close in vain, unable to produce even a syllable. Its surface's constantly writhing flesh buds and newly formed eyes fall into chaos as the Core is forcibly altered, beginning to gnaw, fuse, and disintegrate.

Jiang Yuan does not stop.

He flips his clenched hand and presses down.

"Domain activation."

The moment the words fall, the entire factory, and everything within five hundred meters, loses all light.

Not the darkness of a power outage. It is an absolute, pure darkness that devours even shadows. The furnace's lingering sparks, the emergency lights' dim glows, even the distant skyline's ever‑burning gray‑white backdrop—all light sources extinguish.

In this darkness there is no sound, no smell, no temperature change.

Only countless fine, sharp slicing sounds.

Swish. Swish. Swish swish swish.

Something moves at high speed in the darkness. Its trail is hard to catch, only occasional flashes of crimson, fleeting arcs—traces of dark‑red metal inlaid on the edges of Poker Cards, friction‑generated at extreme speed.

Poker Card.

Jiang Yuan's set of Dark Playing Cards whose edges flash with metallic cold light.

Now they are no longer dozens but hundreds or thousands. Countless Poker Cards, wholly condensed from extreme dark energy, their edges burning with fine black flames, roam, cut, and strangle freely within the absolute dark domain.

They weave a net, covering the soundless, chaotic Flesh and Blood Holy Sound.

No explosion. No tearing.

Only a dense, continuous "shhh" like silk being cut simultaneously by countless scissors.

The massive body of the Flesh and Blood Holy Sound, built from countless lives, is sliced in the death net woven by the Dark Playing Cards into uniform tiny pieces. Each piece is no larger than a Nail, its cut surface smooth, edges charred, as if sealed by an instant high‑temperature sear.

The Poker Card storm lasted about three seconds.

The darkness receded.

Light poured back into the workshop. The furnace, emergency lights, distant sky glow—all returned to normal.

In the workshop's center, the Flesh and Blood Holy Sound had vanished.

Only a thin, even layer of black ash lay on the ground, and a faint charred smell lingered in the air. That Zhun S Ji construct formed from countless believers' flesh and blood had been completely erased of any trace of existence.

Jiang Yuan stood in the center of the ash.

The black markings on his skin slowly faded, sinking back into his flesh. His wounds had fully healed, leaving only large tears in his combat suit and deep brown stains. He raised his hand, catching a Dark Playing Card drifting down from the air, its edge still warm.

The card's surface was smooth, unmarred.

He flipped his hand, slipping the card back into the Card Bag at his waist. The motion was steady, even a bit nonchalant.

As if he hadn't just single‑handedly eradicated a Zhun S Ji anomaly, but merely brushed away a speck of dust from a tabletop.

Jiang Yuan, who had never had a domain before, finally obtained his own exclusive domain.

From outside the workshop came chaotic footsteps and panicked shouts.

It was the three vanguard members who had previously escaped, plus the follow‑up support troops that rushed in after being alarmed. They burst to the workshop doorway, and upon seeing the wreckage inside and Jiang Yuan standing in the ash, his body drenched in blood yet his aura as steady as an Abyss, they all froze in place.

Mouths agape, they could not utter a sound.

Jiang Yuan turned his head, looking at them. His gaze was calm, even perhaps a little indifferent.

"Clear the area." he said, his voice a little hoarse but clear, "clean up inside. The residual radiation of the Flesh and Blood Sacred Sound has dissipated; it's safe."

No one moved.

Everyone seemed nailed to the spot, their eyes a mix of disbelief, bewilderment, and a deeper feeling. It wasn't simple awe of power, but… the instinctive fear and shock of witnessing the birth of something that shouldn't exist here at this time.

Jiang Yuan strode, stepping over the thin layer of black ash, heading toward the workshop Exit.

Each step on the ash barely made a sound.

As he passed the doorway, the blocking team members instinctively stepped aside, clearing a passage. No one dared to come within three meters of him.

Jiang Yuan walked straight out of the workshop into the rain curtain outside. The icy rain washed the bloodstain and burn mark from his face. He lifted his head, letting the rain hit his face, and closed his eyes briefly.

Inside, the Abyss of the Shadow Ghost that had just undergone a silent suppression was unusually calm. All the grudges, all the Fierce Ghost phantoms, settled obediently at the deepest layer, without a hint of agitation. In their place was an absolute, from‑inside‑out sense of control.

It was as if a silent, boundless garden had appeared within his body. He was the gardener and the sole ruler.

"Jiang Yuan!"

A voice came from behind—Su Ming. He and Liang Wen had arrived at some point, standing at the workshop doorway, watching Jiang Yuan's back. Su Ming clutched a palm‑sized black device, its screen frantically flashing crimson numbers and curves.

Liang Wen, holding his Black Flame Knife, opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, finally managing a line: "Wocao… you really turned into a monster?"

Jiang Yuan turned around.

Rain streamed down his black hair at his forehead, washing away the last bloodstain on his face, revealing a young yet calm contour beneath. He glanced at the screaming device in Su Ming's hand, then at Liang Wen's startled expression.

"What are the numbers?" he asked.

Su Ming inhaled deeply, turning the device's screen toward Jiang Yuan. On the screen, the curve representing energy level had broken through the preset highest scale, stabilizing on a crimson horizontal line. In the adjacent label column, a bold letter flickered.

S.

"Stable output, lower bound of S Ji, peak reaching mid‑S Ji," Su Ming's voice was a bit dry, "Detection range… all Weird energy reactions below A Ji within a five‑kilometer radius have been suppressed. They're fleeing."

He paused, then looked up at Jiang Yuan, his gaze complex.

"Lord Wei's dedicated line has been connected."

Almost simultaneously, the encrypted Communicator at Liang Wen's waist beeped. He glanced at it, answered, listened for two seconds, and his expression shifted subtly.

"Headquarters. Highest Authorization communication," Liang Wen handed the Communicator to Jiang Yuan, "Lord Wei is calling personally."

Jiang Yuan took the Communicator and pressed it to his ear.

The Communicator was silent for two seconds.

Then, Lord Wei's steady voice, still composed yet faintly tinged with an imperceptible tremor, came through:

"Jiang Yuan."

"Report, Director," Jiang Yuan stood upright, his voice steady, "Mission complete. The Flesh and Blood Sacred Sound has been cleared. No new casualties among the team. I…"

He paused briefly, as if weighing his words.

"I'm fine."

On the other end, the Communicator fell silent for a few more seconds.

"Return to headquarters," Lord Wei said, his tone leaving no room for doubt, "All subsequent missions are suspended. Immediately, now."

"Understood."

The call ended.

Jiang Yuan handed the Communicator back to Liang Wen. Liang Wen took it, glanced at him, then at Su Ming, and suddenly grinned, showing a set of white teeth.

"Got it, our 'Shadow Lord' sir, this time you've truly become the Federation's S‑Class Combat Power ceiling," he said exaggeratedly, but his eyes held a relieved sparkle, "Let's go, let's go, hurry back. I need to see Lord Wei's old face and see how surprised he is."

Su Ming said nothing, silently stowing the still‑alarming device. He glanced at Jiang Yuan, and in his ever‑calculating dark pupils, Jiang Yuan's calm outline was reflected clearly.

"Let's go," Su Ming said, "Lord Wei is waiting."

Jiang Yuan nodded, stepping forward.

The rain kept falling, washing away the blood and the ruins that had just endured Rule‑level Weird ravage. His steps were steady, treading through the muddy puddles, splashing tiny droplets.

Behind him, the Abandoned Factory that had devoured countless lives was gradually being blurred and swallowed by the rain curtain.

In the distance, clouds hung low over the city sky.

At the top of a skyscraper.

Chu Che folded the encrypted portable monitoring tablet. On the screen, the final frame of Jiang Yuan stepping out of the factory into the rain curtain froze, then went dark.

He turned, walking to the edge of the rooftop. The hem of his dark red shirt fluttered in the high‑altitude wind. He removed his gold‑rimmed glasses and gently wiped the lenses with a velvet cloth, his movements elegant as if performing a ritual.

After wiping, he put them back on.

The icy lenses reflected the dazzling yet cold lights of the city below.

"S Ji… Dark Shadow Court," he murmured, a warm curve lifting his mouth, "the first."

He paused, as if listening for some distant information beyond ordinary perception.

Then he turned, looking eastward. That was the direction of North America.

"Storm"…

He smiled silently.

His smile was gentle, but his eyes held a bottomless calm. Beneath that calm was the near‑devout focus one feels when finally watching a long‑awaited performance begin.

"Dual Kings' Coronation." He nudged his glasses, his gaze behind the lenses reaching farther into the unknowable void, "Chessboard… finally taking shape."

He turned, walking toward the safety door leading downstairs. Before his figure merged with the shadows, he glanced once more at his wristwatch.

The second hand on the dial moved neither fast nor slow, tick by tick, advancing toward a predetermined mark.

Qiu Ce Yuan, medical room.

A pot of meticulously tended white orchid sat quietly blooming on the windowsill.

Chu Che entered, set down the tablet, and picked up the sprayer. Fine mist was evenly scattered over the pure white petals and emerald leaves. His movements were gentle and focused, as if the person who had just surveyed the city from the skyscraper roof and assessed the birth of S‑Class Combat Power were merely another inconsequential figure.

Water droplets rolled down the petals, refracting tiny specks of light under the illumination.