Rift

Old Morgan's brow furrowed even deeper as he crossed the boundary between the inner and outer city.

If the outer city was chaos, then the inner city was currently hell.

Every electric light had been extinguished; not a single one remained lit.

In the darkness, only torches and holy light flickered, casting swaying shadows across the surroundings.

Corpses were scattered across the streets.

Some wore deep blue uniforms—the private guards of the viscount.

Other corpses were actually wearing golden armor.

"Even the Holy Armored Army has fallen?"

Old Morgan's expression was grim.

Piles of corpses, blood, and viscera were scattered everywhere; some individuals could even be seen twitching and twisting, in the process of mutation.

A soldier lay by the roadside, hands gripping his throat tightly as incoherent whimpers escaped his mouth.

Densely packed slits had torn open on both sides of his neck, crimson blood gushing from them as if he were growing fish gills.

"Beyond saving."

Valentine walked over to the suffering soldier and ended his life with a single stroke of his sword.

"An attack of this scale definitely wasn't impromptu!" Valentine sheathed his longsword, his green eyes scanning the surroundings. "They must have been operating in the inner city for a long time."

Old Morgan said nothing.

His gaze fell on a nearby wall where a distorted, broken symbol had been painted in blood—a sign of sacrifice.

The inner city was the safest area of Gelimu Port, protected by the private forces of the viscount and various factions, the Holy Armored Army, and a small Imperial garrison.

How could the Deep Sea Church have infiltrated so deeply?

Unless...

Old Morgan's eyes darkened.

"There's something wrong with the viscount," he whispered.

Valentine nodded. "I was thinking the same thing."

They didn't discuss it further, as a deafening roar already echoed from ahead.

The team quickened their pace, rushing toward the City Hall.

Along the way, they encountered several wandering mutants, whom Valentine dispatched in a few strikes without even slowing down.

The closer they got to the City Hall, the thicker the scent of pollution in the air became—a nauseating stench of rot mixed with an indescribable sense of pressure, as if some gargantuan entity were waiting for them up ahead.

Finally, the City Hall Square came into view.

Old Morgan had seen many things in his life.

Mutated monsters, mad cultists, out-of-control transcendents... he believed few things could still shock him.

But when he saw the sight above the City Hall Square, he couldn't help but reveal a look of astonishment.

It was a pitch-black rift, suspended in the air above the center of the square, with a diameter of over ten meters.

The edges of the rift looked like jagged wounds torn open by something, with black liquid continuously dripping from them.

As the liquid hit the ground, white smoke immediately rose from the bluestone slabs, corroding them into charred pits.

Around the rift, a massive black shadow was spreading.

The shadow had no fixed form, flowing through the air like thick ink, constantly twisting and shifting.

Faintly, Old Morgan saw countless eyes rolling within the depths of the shadow, watching everyone in the square.

Accompanying the shadow were tentacles reaching out from the rift—innumerable pitch-black tentacles of varying thickness.

They lunged crazily toward the people in the square, only to be quickly repelled by the holy light, shrinking back before lunging again.

A low murmuring sound drifted from the rift, as if something were chanting in its depths.

The sound bored into Old Morgan's ears, making he feel a wave of dizziness.

He narrowed his eyes, forcing his attention away from the rift.

In the square, the Holy Armored Army stationed in the inner city was fighting desperately.

The runes on their golden armor were all ablaze as the soldiers formed a tight military array; holy light converged into a golden barrier, repeatedly repelling the tentacles reaching from the rift.

On the eastern side of the square, Old Morgan saw a familiar figure.

The archbishop.

He stood amidst a group of clergy, his purple robes fluttering in the holy light.

Holding a golden scripture in both hands, he chanted ancient prayers at the top of his lungs. Golden holy light surged from him, condensing into a blurry phantom of an Angel above his head, its six wings unfurled as it looked down upon the entire battlefield.

The divine aura radiating from that phantom was desperately suppressing the expansion of the rift.

The archbishop's face was pale, his forehead drenched in sweat, clearly exhausted from the immense drain.

But he did not retreat a single step.

Beneath the barrier, several white-robed clergy worked with him, pooling their holy light to temporarily block the tentacles' assault.

At the front lines, the viscount was swinging a flaming longsword, battling the tentacles.

With every swing, he severed a tentacle, flames swirling around him to dispel the encroaching darkness.

But Old Morgan noticed that the viscount's movements were stiff, and the flames were unstable, flickering like an oil lamp about to run out of fuel.

It was clear the viscount had suffered a very serious injury.

A soldier failed to dodge in time and was snatched around the waist by a tentacle; with a scream, he vanished into the rift.

Old Morgan took a deep breath, his expression becoming as grim as it could be.

How could such a massive rift appear in the inner city? With the inner city's defenses, even if the gates were left wide open, an external enemy couldn't possibly tear open space here!

Unless... that fool of a viscount invited the thief in himself.

But now was not the time to assign blame. His gaze swept the battlefield; he knew such a rift had to be closed at the source.

Old Morgan didn't delay; he crouched down and pressed his palm against the bluestone slabs of the square.

His sensing of mechanics spread out from his fingertips.

Beneath the ground, something was resonating with the rift.

It was in the direction of the City Hall.

"Valentine," Old Morgan spoke.

"I know."

Valentine patted his lapel and pulled a blood-colored potion from his pocket, tilting his head back to drink it.

"A pity about these clothes I just changed into."

In the next moment, Valentine's body began to swell violently. A grey keratin layer covered his entire body, and the pair of deformed wing membranes he usually kept retracted unfurled completely; his green eyes turned blood-red, and fangs protruded from the corners of his mouth.

A powerful aura of bloodlust erupted from him. With a flap of his wings, Valentine leaped into the air and charged into the fray.

Old Morgan turned to the rest of the team. "Assist in the blockade. Don't let anything escape from the rift."

The team members nodded immediately, taking out spirituality potions and downing them before scattering to join the battle.

Old Morgan stood up and strode toward the steps of the City Hall.

The doors of the City Hall were wide open, the interior in shambles.

Old Morgan didn't stop, heading straight through the empty hall to find the entrance to the underground.

Beneath the City Hall was a vast system of underground vaults that had existed since the founding of Gelimu Port.

They were originally intended for storage and as a tsunami shelter for the citizens, with crisscrossing tunnels connecting over a dozen stone chambers of various sizes.

But now, this place had become a nursery for the rift.

Old Morgan followed his mechanical sensing deep inside, finally stopping in the largest vault.

The sight before him made his brow furrow tightly.

The walls were covered in distorted runes glowing with a dark red light, appearing as if drawn in blood.

A massive magic circle was painted on the floor, its complex lines interwoven into a pattern that induced vertigo.

In the center of the array lay an object.

It was a spinal column.

More accurately, it was a spinal-column-like black object.