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Chapter 1183: Sacrifice

“Here it is,” Sir Youlong said, barely above a whisper.

They pressed close to the ventilation duct and looked down. Below lay a cavernous plant — overhead bridge cranes rusting on either side of the wall, the floor a graveyard of dilapidated machine tools and conveyor belts furred with dust. Whatever the owner had not been able to sell, he had simply abandoned. Now the emptiness was alive with torches, their greenish-white flames guttering in a circle, throwing twenty-odd distorted shadows across the concrete.

“Are those our targets?” Luo Hua asked.

“Most likely.” One of the traditional martialists kept his voice flat. “I can sense the fluctuation. They’re in the last stage of transitioning.”

The last stage: the point at which a person surrendered their last hold on consciousness and became a corrupted puppet — all instinct, no language, no self.

“They used to be martialists?”

“Not necessarily. The Association’s records show fallen martialists, but amateurs are more prone to corruption generally.”

“First time seeing a living Fallen Evil.” Luo Hua’s contempt came out clean and sharp. “A martialist without self-discipline is useless in every respect. Pathetic — they don’t deserve the Force of Nature. Captain, let’s move.”

“Wait.” Sir Youlong’s hand was steady on Luo Hua’s arm. “More are coming. Let them gather — one sweep, all of them. But something is wrong here. These Fallen Evils are all in their final stage. Why haven’t they gone after amateurs? Why are they here? I want to know their intentions before we act.”

While the others debated, Roland stole a glance at Fei Yuhan.

That unexpected Your Majesty still rang in his skull.

For a few seconds after she’d said it, turbulent emotion had swept through him — the kind he had not felt since his ascension. His first reflex had been pure joy: Elena. He’d nearly responded, swallowed the word at the last moment. But if Fei Yuhan were Elena’s incarnation, she would never have introduced herself so carefreely and taken the seat beside him as though they were strangers. The shift from that flash of joy to its extinction was almost worse than ordinary grief.

He steadied himself in the minutes that followed. Garcia had warned him: gifted martialists were acute observers. Fei Yuhan had attended the Clover Group’s party, had doubtless overheard his exchange with the witches. She knew something — but how much?

Testing him still, he decided. Not yet aware of the other world. Good.

But the awareness itself was alarming. No one could be allowed to learn that he existed only within a Dream — that the world around them was fictional. Once that secret escaped, the consequences would be beyond repair. Garcia was right. He needed to be very careful with Fei Yuhan.

“Wait — the new one looks different from the others.” A voice crackled through the headset. “It’s commanding them.”

Roland lifted his goggles and looked toward the center of the plant. A man in a suit walked in amid a group of Fallen Evils. They carried three cargo containers at his direction — unhurried, deliberate, as though this were a delivery.

“Still in the transitioning period?” Sir Youlong muttered. “What are they playing at?”

The traditional martialists exchanged uneasy looks. Fallen Evils who had not yet completed their transition were a different problem: empathy was gone, but the dark facets of human nature — subterfuge, cunning, patience — remained intact. These were usually former martialists of some standing.

“Quiet.” Fei Yuhan’s voice cut through. “There’s something in those containers.”

Everyone stilled.

After a moment she said, heavily: “There are people inside.”

“What?”

“Someone crying. Pleading, I think. Gagged.”

“Civilians?” Sir Youlong’s disbelief was genuine. “I’ve never seen anything like this in the Association’s records. Fallen Evils kill — but they don’t collect common people.”

Before anyone could answer, the suited man raised his arms wide and bellowed upward at the rafters: “It is time, children! The divine will approaches — God waits for the sacrifices!”

A guttural chorus erupted from the Fallen Evils.

“Come! Let power return to its source, let the Oracle walk the continent once more!”

Grrr—

“We are reborn in the destruction of this world! Surrender everything. Let us offer the sacrifice!”

The roar that answered him shook dust from the overhead cranes.

“We move. Now.” Sir Youlong’s words came through clenched teeth. Whatever human sacrifice or cult summoning this was, none of it was in the Association’s records — and there were civilians in those containers. Saving lives had always been the mission, ahead of tallying kills. “Stay close to the containers. Block the Fallen Evils from approaching them. If one or two escape, the second team will run them down.”

Fei Yuhan was already gone — a blur vanishing through the duct.

The rest poured after her.

The deserted plant erupted.

The Fallen Evils had not expected a breach from above. Under the concentrated Force of Nature, they collapsed where they stood, cores ripped from their bodies before they could orient themselves.

Roland was the last through. He moved carefully, masking his ability — this was not his first engagement with Fallen Evils, and he had learned to read the geometry of a fight. Unlike the martialists, he did not need to wrestle with anything. A Fallen Evil that touched him lost its power immediately, and he did not want the detached red cyclones rising of their own accord for everyone to see. He struck no showy blows and named no technique. He simply moved, and the Fallen Evils fell.

The bug on his shoulder trembled. Phyllis and the other witches had arrived.

With them nearby, Roland felt the sureness settle into him the way it always did. He killed more Fallen Evils than anyone except Fei Yuhan, and nobody noticed.

They reached the containers with only minor injuries. Half the enemy lay dead.

“Easier than I thought.” Luo Hua shook blood from his hands, seized the padlock on the nearest container, and snapped it in two. “The Association should’ve issued me a hunting license years ago. Hey — don’t be afraid, we’re from the Martialist Association, we’re here to—”

He stopped.

Every team member took an involuntary step back.

Inside the container: dozens of people lashed to metal posts, eyes blindfolded, mouths sealed, trembling and moaning. Above each of them, suspended in the air, hung a cyclone — spinning, scarlet, patient.

The hair on the back of Roland’s neck rose.

He heard Garcia’s voice as clearly as if she stood beside him.

“These cyclones are where Fallen Evils gain their power — signs of corruption. Once a person is corrupted, they lose their Force of Nature. If the cyclones aren’t contained, they’ll infect others. An ordinary person loses their mind on first contact.”

“You’re saying they can be transferred — to multiple people at once?”

“That’s exactly what someone is thinking. Are they not afraid of destroying this world?”

So the past six months — all of it — had been preparation for this.

Roland wheeled toward the suited man.

He had a butler’s poise: monocled spectacles, hair combed straight back, crisp suit, white gloves unmarked by any of the evening’s violence. Now his face was contorted — not with fury exactly, but with the expression of a man whose calculation has been interrupted.

“We don’t strictly need you to complete the sacrifice,” he said. “But more victims is always better. Don’t you agree?” He snapped his fingers.

Every cyclone dropped at once.

No—!

Luo Hua lunged toward the nearest prisoner — but the bodies were packed too tightly, and the suspended cyclones fell between them like curtains. There was no way to untie anyone without passing through.

“Kill them!” a traditional martialist shouted.

“But — they’re civilians—” Luo Hua’s voice cracked.

There was no time for the sentence to finish. Within seconds the transformation was complete. They were not as powerful as Fallen Evils made from martialists — but there were so many of them, pouring from the container in a wave, and Luo Hua disappeared into it.

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