Chapter 517: Formal Engagement

"Accept the blessing!"

The voice in the blood mist was so light it sounded like soothing a child to sleep.

Immediately after, the hundreds of believers in the front row, swollen into spheres, began to split from their bellies.

It wasn't an ordinary collapse.

The flesh and blood splashed outward, turning color mid‑air from red to black, landing on the armored vehicle's alloy hull; a hiss of white smoke rose, and the steel plates, as if doused with acid, visibly sagged.

The armored vehicle at the front softened its entire nose, like wax melted by fire.

The occupants hadn't even managed to shout "Exit" when the cabin collapsed into a pool of scorching molten metal.

"Rules contamination!" a Silent One shouted, and before the words landed, half his body was gnawed through by the splashing black blood, smoking as he fell.

The allied front line's vanguard collapsed half in the blink of an eye.

Carter, inside the vehicle, felt his scalp tingle, his legs involuntarily recoiling: "What… what kind of tactic is this? Treating our own as—"

"Don't speak."

Su Ming's voice was pressed down to a whisper, yet those two words drilled into everyone's mind with an undeniable force.

His right eye reflected the outward spray of black blood.

The next wave of believers had swollen to the limit, skin translucent, eyes bulging as if about to pop.

Su Ming raised his hand, spreading his five fingers.

The Time Marrow Worm inside him was forcibly activated, his stomach roiling like a torrent, a foul‑sweet taste climbing his throat.

He paid it no heed.

At the battlefield's center, the black plasma about to burst slowed in midair.

It was as if someone had pressed pause on a fast‑forwarding video, forcing it back to a fraction of a speed.

The splashing blood droplets hung there, moving so slowly their outlines could be counted.

Just these few tenths of a second.

Enough.

"All units, listen up!" Su Ming's command flooded the comms, swift and steady. "Abort the full advance, cut the formation here! Form squads, back‑to‑back circles; no one charges. Hold the three‑foot ground beneath your feet!"

"Do not melee the exploding believers; snipe them from range to trigger, then step back three paces immediately after detonation!"

"Eastern line, use those two unmelted armored vehicles as a wall!"

The order slammed down, and the allied force, on the verge of scattering, seemed pressed by an invisible hand.

The boundless battlefield was, with just a few words, split into dozens of independent small defensive zones.

Each circle stood back‑to‑back, shielding the core, while the Silent Ones on the outer ring carried the Rules contamination outward.

The slowed plasma finally hit the ground, corroding the empty ruin's asphalt, yet it harmed no living soul.

Su Ming exhaled a puff of foul breath, blood spilling from his mouth corner.

He wiped it away; Du Yan's eyes still held that cold resolve: "Hold. Bite the front line down here."

The chaos was held at bay by him alone.

On the church's high platform, the gavel kept striking.

Thump. Thump.

Steady and solemn, bearing the gravitas of judgment, incongruous with the sea of rotting flesh and blood.

"The charlatan cripple."

A wildly manic voice erupted from the allied flank.

Liang Wen leapt from the roof of an armored vehicle; his black windcoat darkened under the Blood Moon's crimson glow, and the odd patterns on his fingerless gloves flickered.

He brandished the long sword enshrouded in black flame, grinning, his peach‑blossom eyes alight with excitement.

"This role is mine!"

He planted a foot on the still‑liquid blood mud, leapt forward, moving so fast it left after‑images.

Where the Black Flame Knife sliced, the blocking believers fell in sheets, engulfed by a swirl of eerie blue fire, leaving no ash.

The self‑detonating flesh array failed on him—regeneration contamination met the Black Flame Knife, which specifically counters regeneration; just as it began to swell, it was burned to charcoal.

"Feel it!" Liang Wen shouted while charging, his tone drawn out like a stage chant, "My black flame will scorch away all false gods' blessings—"

A gray silhouette swept past his left‑rear.

Xu An.

Silent One.

The boy with his mouth sewn shut under Chen Shao's command stepped out silently through the bloodwater, the Red Wood Ruler pressed to his side.

He moved without a sound; wherever he passed, the humming believers that surged forward opened their mouths but could not utter a syllable—covered by his Rules domain.

One black, one gray.

Two daggers, swimming upstream against the tide of flesh, thrust straight toward the church's high platform where Yan Ming sat.

Liang Wen glanced at side‑by‑side Xu An, his mouth never stopping: "Yo, the little mute from Eden Garden showed up? Don't worry, I'll hack that cripple first, and the leftover scraps are yours."

Xu An ignored him.

He tipped the ruler sideways; three charging believers were flung away, landing silently.

Liang Wen sneered, "No bite."

The blade's fire flared a bit stronger.

At the same time.

The ruined bell tower atop the church.

Sai Men leaned on his eyeball staff, half his body protruding into the void, looking down from above at the feast below that had just boiled over.

The living eyeball atop the staff spun merrily, alternately targeting the battlefield Su Ming had sliced and then slipping onto the upstream‑fighting Liang Wen and Xu An.

Beneath the mask, an uncontainable curve.

"Good show, good show," he whispered, smacking his lips like a viewer munching sunflower seeds while following a drama.

Wind rushed in from the broken clock's side, making the hem of his suit flap with a hiss.

At that very moment—

Three afterimages rose from the Blood Mist below.

The first, cloaked entirely in flowing ink‑black, landed silently—Jiang Yuan.

The second, in a suit and leather shoes, was Chen Shao.

The third was the most terrifying: his whole body swelled with knotted muscles, veins bulging beneath his skin, each step on the ruins leaving a deep pit—the S Ji flesh‑enhanced manipulator sent by the North American Union, code‑named "Feral Wolf."

The three rose into the air, their aim precise to the millimeter.

Atop the clock tower, the figure wearing a deep‑gray mask, watching the battle leisurely.

Sai Men.

"Ehh—" Sai Men let out a prolonged strange howl, his posture showing no panic, only surprise, "One, two, three—three of them?"

"And they're all the kind of notable players."

He straightened, tapping his cane against the edge of the clock tower.

The living eyeball turned toward the three ascending silhouettes, reflecting their faces within, growing ever more animated.

"The Eastern Shadow Lord, Eden Garden's young master, North America's mad dog..."

"Tsk."

The two pitch‑black holes beneath the mask slowly aligned with Jiang Yuan at the center.

"All this spectacle, aimed right at me?"

"Flattered and startled, truly."

He did not retreat.

His vintage black suit, dyed red by the Blood Moon, billowed in the wind, swelling with a creaking sound.

The eyeball atop his cane suddenly fixed, dead‑locking onto the three.

Sai Men spread his arms, becoming a living host waiting to embrace guests.

"Come on," he said lightly.

"Let me see how many hops you 'righteous' little mice can make on my turf."

Meanwhile, miles away.

Qiu Ce Yuan, infirmary.

On the windowsill, a pot of white orchids was in full bloom, a few droplets clinging to the petals.

Chu Che, clad in an immaculate Doctor's Lab Coat, held the petite spray bottle, leisurely sprinkling water onto the leaves.

His movements were light, rhythm steady, as if tending a priceless treasure.

On the wall before him floated a translucent holographic screen.

Within the screen was top‑secret surveillance from the front lines.

The fiery self‑detonation of flesh, Su Ming's formation‑cutting directives, the figures of Liang Wen and Xu An fighting upstream, and those three afterimages charging the clock tower.

Every frame, without omission, lay within his gaze.

The lenses of his Gold Thread Glasses reflected the blood‑stained battlefield with crystal clarity.

He lifted his hand and nudged the frame.

The last drop in the spray bottle fell onto a petal, rolled, and sank into the mud.

Chu Che set the spray bottle down, studying the pot of white orchids, the slight curve at his lips gentle as if admiring his own child's drawing.

"The clone‑built table is getting more presentable,"

He muttered to himself, his tone flat without a hint of fluctuation.

The eyes behind the lenses were so deep they seemed bottomless.

Beneath the calm lay a near‑greedy anticipation, like a player watching two central pieces on a board about to collide fiercely.

He turned, his back to the scorching monitor, picked up the spray bottle again, and walked toward the second pot of flowers on the opposite side of the windowsill.

The slaughter on the screen, poised to devour tens of thousands of lives, seemed trivial compared to this single pot of water he was sprinkling.

In front of the main church doors.

Liang Wen had already slashed down to the steps.

Behind him lay a long chain of charred follower corpses; the flame on the Black Flame Knife licked the blood, emitting a faint sizzle.

He lifted his foot.

The mottled door, carved with a now‑tattered saint statue, was kicked apart into pieces, splintered wood and dust scattering everywhere.

Inside the door

Upon the high platform.

Yan Ming stood there.

His deep‑blue suit was ironed flawlessly, without a crease.

He gripped the bone‑white Gavel in his hand, using a pristine white handkerchief to slowly, deliberately wipe the blood from its head.

He cleaned it with extreme care, as if tending a relic that could not tolerate any stain.

The noise of the door being kicked open did not make him look up.

Only after the bloodstain was wiped spotless did he fold the handkerchief and slip it into his suit pocket.

Then, he slowly lifted his gaze.

His gaze was so cold it could seep into bone, passing over the wreckage below, landing on the two intruding silhouettes—one black, one gray.

Liang Wen hoisted his knife, smirking: "Yo, you're quite particular. What time is it now, still bothering to wipe your gear?"

Yan Ming didn't respond.

He lowered his gaze to look at his own gleaming gavel, then lifted his eyes to sweep over the blood‑stained battlefield outside; finally his gaze settled on Liang Wen and Xu An.

"Both of you."

He spoke, his tone flat as reading a verdict.

"Are you also here bearing guilt?"

The ivory gavel was slowly raised. Liang Wen slung his Black Flame Knife onto his shoulder, his peach‑blossom eyes narrowing.

"Guilt?" he scoffed, "The worst thing I've ever done in my life was stealing and eating the last popsicle from the team's fridge last week."

"That charge won't stick to me."

Xu An didn't speak—he couldn't speak.

The stitched corner of his mouth twitched; the Red Wood Ruler lay across his front, the air around him growing heavier and heavier. The humming sounds outside were cut off at this invisible boundary, leaving an eerie silence.

Yan Ming's gaze swept back and forth over the two of them.

"Stubborn." he remarked, his tone devoid of ripple, like an old judge who's heard countless excuses: "No one in the defendant's seat admits guilt."

"Thieves, deceivers, those who harbored murderous intent..."

"All think they're clean."

Liang Wen glanced down, seeing those fine threads creep up to the tip of his boot, his brow lifting.

"Heh, still pulling this trick."

Under his foot, Black Flame coiled; the few tendrils that brushed the flame instantly blackened, curled, and turned to ash.

Yan Ming's brow furrowed ever so slightly.

Like a neat‑freak spotting a new stain on the floor.

"Black Flame." he uttered those two words, pressing the ivory gavel down half an inch, "It specifically counters regeneration... no wonder the Federation dares to send you."

Liang Wen grinned wider: "Now you're scared? Too late."

He stepped forward, the Black Flame Knife swinging up in a diagonal slash; the cluster of azure fire on the blade instantly surged higher by a section.

"Yan Ming?"

"Your faith shattered, you took Sai Men's Seed, and here you play the great benevolent one judging all beings."

"To be honest, I'm sick of your act."

The knife‑fire lit his face, half light, half shadow.

"Today I'll let this broken court—"

"Adjourn."

Before the words finished, he had already lunged forward.

Xu An's silhouette vanished in the same instant, a gray after‑image clinging to the opposite pillar and sliding toward the platform.

One black, one gray—two daggers aimed straight at the man seated on the judgment bench.

Yan Ming stood his ground, not retreating.

He simply lifted the gleaming gavel slowly over his head.

"This court."

His voice drowned out the incoming blade‑wind, calm, cold, carrying an unquestionable judicial weight.

"Render judgment."

The gavel fell.