Chapter 378: Trapped

This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation.com

In the otherworldly realm where spirits reign supreme, menacing clusters of shadows began to retreat reluctantly, gradually fading into nothingness. The transition within this spiritual world was profound, marked by an eerie tranquility that echoed through the void.

Agatha, a guardian of this mystical realm, gently lifted her left hand, her gaze fixed silently on the incapacitated heretic who had collapsed at the edge of a sacred geometric symbol—a triangle. The heretic lay in agony and desolation, writhing in severe pain on the harsh, unyielding ground. The black chains, symbols of his sinister allegiance, had been violently shattered. The broken remnants of these chains sent forth plumes of smoke, slowly dissolving into a powder-like residue, a testament to their past potency and binding power.

The demise of his demonic canine companion signaled the heretic’s impending death. His life force was rapidly depleting, yet he was not entirely spent, still possessing the ability to respond to some crucial questions.

Agatha bore no illusions about this stubborn heretic’s willingness to cooperate, yet she approached him at a leisurely pace, stopping at the periphery of the mystical triangle. She peered down, her penetrating gaze focused on the hapless devotee of darkness.

“I find it quite astonishing,” she began, her voice methodical and unwavering, resonating in the ethereal environment with a grave-like echo capable of eroding even the most formidable mental defenses. “You infiltrated an important establishment and assumed control, all while under the watchful eyes of the Death Church. Moreover, you replaced all the priests… How did you accomplish such a feat?”

On the brink of death, the heretic made an effort to lift his head, managing only a derisive smirk. His emaciated face showed no trace of fear. “Guess?” he retorted.

Agatha, unfazed by his rudeness, continued, “Is your secret headquarters concealed within Frost?”

The cultist’s answer came in the form of a weak, contemptuous laugh. Laboriously, he adjusted his position, lying back flat on the starkly white terrain, his defiant gaze locked with Agatha’s probing eyes. “Don’t trouble yourself… Even if it’s in Frost, you’ll never find it… By the time you chance upon our sanctuary, our triumph will be a foregone conclusion, naive priestess…”

Agatha’s face remained expressionless. With no discernible emotion, she lifted her staff, aiming its end at the cultist’s chest. “What is your grand strategy? To infect the city-state with your so-called ‘elements’? Or maybe you aspire to replace the living populace with your volatile ‘counterfeits’? How does the power concealed in the deep sea contribute to this? Is it connected to the Abyss Project?”

A spectral blaze ignited at the tip of her staff, radiating an eerie glow. This flame possessed a power that could scorch both the tangible form and the intangible spirit, imposing a degree of suffering that was simply intolerable. The cultist contorted under the strain, yet his dedication to his dark cause did not waver. His teeth were set on edge, his stare unflinchingly fixed on the imposing figure of the gatekeeper. His unsettling laughter, rasped out through his gritted teeth, struck a chilling chord. “Ha… ha… The prophecy… is nearing its completion… No one… No one can escape it…”

For the first time, a hint of displeasure marred Agatha’s stoic countenance. She gradually raised her arm, her staff serving as a conduit to lift the heretic into the air. The phantasmal flames engulfed his form, a body long warped due to its unholy symbiosis with the demonic hound. He hovered in mid-air, reminiscent of a ragged fabric flag fluttering amidst the ghostly inferno.

Agatha’s voice echoed, bearing a bone-chilling coldness that matched the stark, desolate reverberations of a crypt. “I pose one final inquiry: how do you blasphemers dare to utter the name of our Death Deity?”

Amidst the spectral flames, the skeletal silhouette of the cultist emerged, a slow, self-satisfied grin gradually spreading across his features. His pleasure was so intense that the pain from his ongoing immolation seemed to diminish by half, particularly at the sight of the church’s gatekeeper being momentarily confounded by his audacious statement.

“Indeed, the Lord of the Underworld reveals hidden realities… All world religions blur into a single indistinct entity… We, who have been enlightened, have transcended such petty differences… Dear foolish gatekeeper, do you truly believe there’s a difference between your god and our Lord?”

Agatha’s visage underwent a swift transformation in response to this brazen proclamation. The offender before her had dared to draw a parallel between the Nether Lord and the God of Death. His irreverence ignited a rage within her. Yet, the heretic allowed himself a final, self-satisfied grin within the conflagration consuming him, affording her no chance to extend her interrogation. He breathed his last, leaving behind only his rapidly deteriorating remains.

“Nothing but the delirious ramblings of a madman, devoid of coherence and rationality.” Agatha’s expression was an ominous storm as she lowered her staff. Her anger still bit keenly, but she made sure that these emotional surges did not muddy her discernment. In fact, once she successfully suppressed her visceral reactions, she instantly initiated her mental cogs.

Discarding the audacity of the heretic’s ultimate statement, which dared to equate the Nether Lord with the God of Death, the stubborn cultist had unwittingly revealed a substantial amount of information for her to dissect and examine.

Indeed, the cultists did harbor a stronghold within Frost, a location they referred to as a “sanctuary,” implying its significance as a ritualistic ground. This insight was in sync with the existing information. Their sanctuary was cleverly hidden, making it a formidable challenge to locate. Yet, the heretic had hinted that their success was tied to the unearthing of the sanctuary. This suggested that the mode of concealment could be intrinsically connected to the progression of their “ritual.” The closer the ritual came to completion, the more discernible the sanctuary’s whereabouts became…

Could this be a consequence of the ritual inadvertently leaking some form of aura? Or was the unveiling of the sanctuary’s location an integral aspect of accomplishing the ritual?

Furthermore, the heretic had hinted at something they termed “the promised arrival.” This might coincide with their belief system’s climactic “prophecy”—that the power of the Nether Lord would overtake the physical world, and the spiritual deep sea, typically concealed deep within the world, would transform into the new “reality.” The cult’s fervent adherents, the Annihilators, invariably envisioned the unfathomable abyss of the sea as their paradise. This much was indisputable.

However, the specifics of this metamorphosis remained ambiguous. Would simply introducing “primordial elements” into the city-state suffice? Clearly, this alone was inadequate… These “counterfeit” elements could hardly maintain their stability over a long duration, much less contaminating an entire city-state.

Unless… what if these zealous annihilators had unearthed a technique to sustain the stability of these “counterfeits” over an extended period? They could conceivably create an environment conducive to this, or perhaps… they could manipulate Frost itself to serve as such an environment…

Agatha’s eyebrows drew together as she hastily concluded her line of reasoning and surveyed her environment.

She was still in the spiritual realm, a place bathed in an otherworldly radiance that streamed from cracks in the ceiling, painting everything with a spectral glow. Subtle noises could be heard from all around—the persistent shadows of the spirit realm were becoming restless again—evidently, a feast could not keep them appeased for long.

The youthful gatekeeper shook her head, raised her left hand, and carefully repositioned her eyeball into its socket.

Instantly, the far-off rustlings halted, the dim shadows and the monochrome landscape regained their color, and the familiar scent of the material world filled her senses.

Agatha exhaled a soft sigh and reached into her garments to retrieve some eye drops, but abruptly, her motions stilled.

The atmosphere was ominously silent, entirely devoid of any human presence.

Agatha swept her gaze around the area, unable to locate the black-clad guardians she had arrived with, nor could she pinpoint the whereabouts of the supervisor of the sewage treatment facility who had earlier fled in terror. Even more perplexing, she couldn’t find any trace of the ashes of the three heretics and the numerous “counterfeits.”

In theory, after vanquishing those heretics and “counterfeits” within the spirit realm, their remains should have materialized in the physical world concurrently.

The silence was eerie and unsettling. She could not sense the presence of any living beings in the vicinity.

Agatha’s brows knitted together tightly. She moistened her eyes, relieving their dryness while cautiously surveying her surroundings, then slowly headed towards the nearby exit. There, she found the rusted metal gate slightly ajar, indicating a hurried departure.

Following a harsh metallic screech, she pushed open the metal gate to find a corridor devoid of warmth despite the burning gas lamps to the sides.

“Tap… tap… tap…”

The rhythmic sound of her staff and heels striking the floor echoed sharply and hollowly in the corridor as Agatha steadily advanced.

The entire sewage treatment center was desolate, utterly devoid of any human presence.

However, there were also no adversaries in sight.

Unhindered, she moved through the factory area and emerged into an open space outside the facility.

The sky above was a suffocating, heavy sheet of dark, tumultuous clouds that obscured the city-state. Only a few feeble, lifeless rays of light managed to filter through the cloud cover, providing a dim hint of daylight. All visible structures were submerged under this gloomy expanse, emanating a frigid, deathly, spectral aura.

Agatha vividly remembered that when she had first arrived at the sewage treatment center, the day outside was brilliantly sunny—the sun was proudly perched high in the sky, and the city-state was beautifully unblemished by a single cloud.

“The sun?”

A minuscule seed of doubt began to sprout in Agatha’s mind, rapidly evolving into a pronounced sense of cognitive dissonance. She abruptly stumbled upon a realization. Driven by it, she again raised her gaze to scrutinize the sky overhead.

The sky was solely lit by an unidentifiable, chaotic light, devoid of any celestial body that could be recognized as the “sun.”

Agatha strained to recollect the appearance of the “sun,” the concept of the “sun.”

She found herself unable to recall as if a thick fog had settled over her understanding, obscuring her memories of the “sun.” However, one detail remained glaringly distinct—there was meant to be a celestial body in this world, dubbed the “sun,” which ordinarily dwelled in the sky, emitting light and warmth to illuminate all existence!

“Cognitive disruption, influencing even a gatekeeper… Its intensity is impressive, encapsulating the entire environment…” Agatha murmured to herself. After an initial moment of disbelief, she quickly gathered her composure and started to scrutinize her surroundings with renewed focus.

“I am in a different realm.”

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