A sudden, blinding flash erupted atop the mountain peak. The sudden burst of light was so brilliant that even the sun seemed to dim for an instant. The spectators watching from below cried out in agony, clasping their hands over their eyes.
Even so, they felt bathed in an inescapable sea of white radiance, tears streaming uncontrollably down their faces.
A moment later, the colossal boom of the ensuing explosion made eardrums throb with pain and resonated deeply within people's chests. Almost all the windows of the cars parked in the distance shattered into fragments, sending many people shrieking and ducking for cover.
At the epicenter of the blast, the cultists naturally bore the brunt of it. Overwhelmed by the blinding glare and deafening roar, their senses went almost entirely numb, and an instant later, a fierce shockwave violently shoved them, sending them tumbling and crashing across the ground.
Over by the International Investigation Delegation, Durozier reacted the instant the light washed over them. His field expanded rapidly, enveloping both himself and the delegation members to shield their area from the incoming shockwave.
Just then, he heard a muffled, stifled pop. Looking up, he saw hairline fractures splitting the air above, through which multicolored beams of light leaked out.
The surrounding ritual field had suffered a violent impact, tearing open for a fraction of a second before quickly stitching itself back together, producing this very phenomenon.
The chaotic field also inflicted an intense sense of discomfort on the crowd around them. Cultists collapsed on the ground couldn't help but groan and wail in misery.
Durozier was perhaps the only person on the field capable of ignoring these disturbances. He turned his gaze toward where the two combatants had clashed, and what met his eyes made his heart leap into his throat.
Chen Chuan held the Xuejun Saber in one hand while keeping his other arm extended forward in a pressing palm strike. The residual radiance was slowly receding, and the fierce drafts of air whipped violently at his overcoat and the red ribbon on his saber's hilt.
Opposite him, Samaruga still stood there, though the external visage of the Takelu Lion had vanished entirely. Between the chest and abdomen of that towering body was a terrifying, gaping hole.
Inside, the flesh was charred black, trailing wisps of smoke, with strands of platinum-gold light entwined over the wound.
Now, only the muscle and mutated tissue along the outer edges of his torso remained, barely holding his frame upright.
His aberrant power had indeed been capable of neutralizing a certain degree of spiritual fire, but Chen Chuan's spiritual impact this time had vastly exceeded his upper threshold of endurance. Even with the ritual's empowerment, he had been powerless to stop it. The only thing the ritual had accomplished was binding his body and absorbing a portion of the force, sparing him from being blown completely to pieces on the spot.
Yet even so, he had lost all capacity to fight—and the trauma he had suffered went far beyond the spiritual impact alone.
Flickering remnants of spiritual fire clung to the rest of his body, within which a distinctive green light suddenly rippled.
Pure Spiritual Light.
In the space of a single breath, the remaining spiritual fire was thoroughly suppressed, but that green radiance endured. Growing brighter and fiercer, it raced from the torn wound into the rest of his limbs. In mere moments, most of the mutated tissue throughout his body was infected by the Pure Spiritual Light, rapidly melting away under its corrosive power.
Sensing this change, Chen Chuan knew there was no possibility of Samaruga surviving. He pulled back his hand and straightened his posture. Drawn by his field's pull, his scabbard flew into his grip from afar, and he slid the blade smoothly home.
Once Chen Chuan stepped away, Samaruga's breathing turned ragged. He staggered back a few paces, trying to say something, but as soon as his mouth parted, tendrils of smoke drifted out.
A moment later, jets of green flames erupted from his eyes, ears, mouth, and nostrils. His legs finally gave out, and he crashed backward onto the ground with a heavy thud.
Countless points of green radiance flickered across his body. Sustained by the ritual's empowerment and his own stubborn vitality, his mutated tissue kept striving to regenerate, only to be instantly dissolved and dismantled by the Pure Spiritual Light. It was an agonizing ordeal akin to torture, leaving him twitching violently on the stone floor.
Only then did the members of the delegation finally come to their senses. Staring at the wretched, fallen Samaruga, they stood dazed.
It felt as though the two had exchanged only a few brief words, and then, after a momentary flash of light and sound, this formidable figure had simply been laid low—all in the blink of an eye.
Chen Chuan turned his head toward them and said, "There's another chamber beneath this place. I'm going down to take a look. Please wait here for a moment."
He didn't address Durozier directly, but the latter remained obediently where he stood, not daring to twitch a muscle. Looking at Samaruga lying there, Durozier felt an overwhelming surge of relief. Thank goodness he had surrendered early and hadn't dug his heels in. Otherwise, he might have suffered the same—no, that wasn't right. He wouldn't have even been qualified to endure such an ordeal; he likely would have been wiped out in a single exchange.
That would have been far too tragic. He could never bear to part with his wealth, his art collections, and least of all the implant maid guard he had spent a fortune to assemble.
Chen Chuan walked along the colonnade toward the palace situated in the rear. Within a few paces, he reached the fire pit, where the shimmering Light of Truth above it could now be seen much more clearly.
He could tell that if guided by certain psychic forces, this thing could open a permanent fissure. If one wished to avoid that outcome, destroying it was the best course of action.
However, upon arriving, he had received a telegram from the First Diplomatic Mission, in which Delegation Leader Jiang had advised him to exercise restraint.
Restraint—the subtext was simply to do only what was necessary and avoid overstepping, preventing greater friction with the New Light Cult that would only serve to aid the East Coast faction for free.
Although the First Diplomatic Mission held no direct authority over him, he knew they were conducting crucial negotiations. There was no need to push things too far. So he withdrew his gaze, skirted around the pit, and continued forward.
Right then, the flapping of wings suddenly sounded in the air.
A robin common to the region fluttered down, perching upon the eaves ahead. A distinctly human expression shone in its eyes.
Chen Chuan naturally noticed it, recognizing at a glance that the Divine Visage of Valchi, the international fugitive from before, was attached to the bird. The man had found his way back once again.
Valchi seemed to harbor no anger or humiliation over having his previous host vessel obliterated. Instead, he treated it as an amusing game, intentionally showing himself before Chen Chuan once more.
It hopped and strutted back and forth atop the eaves. Seeing that Chen Chuan showed no inclination to speak or strike and merely maintained his steady, measured pace forward, it leaned down and called out, "Say, I hear the Pontiff of the New Light Cult is a 'Saint.' After doing all this, aren't you afraid he'll come after you?"
Without looking up, Chen Chuan replied, "If I were worried about that, I wouldn't have come here in the first place."
A natural balance existed in this world. Higher-tier powers were naturally dealt with by those of corresponding stature; otherwise, the world would have descended into chaos long ago.
Moreover, whether the New Light Cult truly possessed a so-called "Saint" was questionable. If it were the Esoteric Gate Cult, the New Light Cult's predecessor, it might have been plausible, but there was no concrete proof regarding the New Light Cult itself. Otherwise, they wouldn't have been classified as an evil cult by nations across the globe.
Seeing Chen Chuan walk right past underneath, the robin hopped forward a few paces and chased after him, calling down, "Even if their Pontiff isn't a Saint in the truest sense, he's at least a Throne martial artist. Are you really not afraid?"
Chen Chuan cast a sidelong upward glance and said calmly, "Then let him come." With that, he stepped through the palace gates.
Ahead lay a smooth, sweeping corridor paved with exquisite floor tiles. The pillars were etched with delicate patterns, and clear water flowed along channels flanking either side of the walkway.
Upon reaching the far end, the closed bronze doors before him twisted and warped under his gaze. Screeching harshly, they parted to both sides, revealing a flight of stairs descending into the depths.
Following the stairs down, he found two corridors branching out in opposite directions. The one behind him, he judged, likely led directly beneath the fire pit above, while the other seemed to head toward the rear of the mountain, showing very few traces of foot traffic.
After a moment's thought, he decided to inspect the passage behind him first. Turning inward, he noticed ritual symbols lining the walls along the way. They were distinct esoteric ritual patterns, each seemingly serving a specific purpose, designed to resonate with the grand ritual outside.
Until they were activated, however, their precise functions remained indiscernible.
At the end of the corridor, he saw twelve elongated caskets crafted from obsidian resting ahead. Skarson lay within one of them. Judging from the faint, involuntary field radiating from him, he still retained a measure of vitality.
His body was sealed beneath a thick layer of white nutrient salve, revealing only the rough contours of his face and frame.
Chen Chuan stepped up to the casket and examined it. To his surprise, the coating turned out to be a specialized nutrient salve that even martial artists could absorb, allowing mutated tissue to regenerate rapidly. He glanced at Skarson's arms; they were intact, though slightly slender, evidently having regrown over the past few days.
Naturally, the cult hadn't provided this nourishment out of benevolence. If his guess was correct, they were merely nursing him back to peak condition so they could sacrifice him whole.
Under Chen Chuan's focused gaze, hairline cracks spread across the dense salve, followed by the crust shattering into dried, brittle flakes.
Skarson's eyelids fluttered, and then his eyes opened. He spotted Chen Chuan instantly, showing no surprise whatsoever.
"Mr. Chen," he asked, "what time is it? How is the investigation going?"
Chen Chuan looked at him, inwardly noting that the man truly never forgot his duty, completely indifferent to his own dire peril. "Mr. Skarson," he replied, "it has been roughly twelve days since you were imprisoned."
Skarson showed a flicker of surprise. Taking stock of his own condition, he asked, "After so long, why did they keep me alive?"
A reason crossed Chen Chuan's mind, but he kept it to himself, saying instead, "They likely have their own designs. You will have to see the situation for yourself."
Chapter 1132