Chapter 78
The shadow of the Lord of the Other Shore slowly fell.
Reality is on the verge of collapse, and even time itself is being crushed into fragments along its path.
Just as everyone's consciousness was on the verge of collapse—
High in the sky, an ancient yet solemn "question" resounded.
It doesn't resemble a language.
It's more like some being is using its authority to strike the "celestial axis" of the world.
— "Do not cross the line."
The voice was devoid of emotion, yet it carried the absolute authority of law.
The next moment—
The entire sky was pierced by an unimaginably huge "chain of light".
That is not light.
Rather, it is the **"constraints of the concept itself"**—not metal, not energy, but the concrete manifestation of rules that "cannot be transgressed".
The chains crashed down, pinning the "shadow" that had fallen from the crack to mid-air.
The air burned, the void shattered, and even the Lord of the Rift was momentarily stunned by this attack.
The invisible pupil slowly turned toward the source of the falling chains.
—That was the outline of a higher sky.
Blurry. Distant. Unable to make out the shape.
Even just glimpsing a corner of it made all the survivors feel their knees buckle and their hearts almost stop beating.
It wasn't a single consciousness, but rather an ancient council composed of countless superimposed beings.
They disregarded the battlefield and the lives lost.
They only care about the rules.
"This world has not yet reached its 'time of destruction'."
"The Lord of the Other Shore must not overstep his authority to interfere."
The voice sounded like it was proclaiming some law that had long been engraved on the starry sky.
The Lord of the Rift was silent for a moment, then let out a low, mocking laugh:
"...Ha, remnants of the old era...still playing the role of 'order'?"
Black flames surged deep within its chest.
It was preparing to break free by force.
Meanwhile, the "Shadow of the Parliament" in the sky spoke again:
"If you insist on breaking the rules—"
"—And you too, I will obliterate you."
The storm suddenly stopped.
It's as if the whole world is waiting for that moment of judgment.
Sprout 12 and 237 stood struggling atop the battlefield wreckage, realizing for the first time:
This war—
It's not just their struggle against the rift.
They are nothing more than,
The betting chips of countless "giants".
The chains still hung in the sky, like a severing blade piercing through the very rules themselves.
The fissure that had cleaved open the chest of the Rift still emitted black flames, but it no longer roared.
It slowly raised its head, looking towards the "Council of the Old Gods" in the higher heavens.
The voice was deep and low, like ancient magma churning in the shadows:
"You... still have the resources to interfere in this realm?"
The heavens responded silently.
The chains tightened even more.
A chilling cracking sound came from its chest, but it still did not continue to struggle.
It stopped—
But that pause didn't seem like failure; it was more like a predator licking its wounds with a cold smile.
It slowly turned its gaze back to the ground, to the center of the plain, which had been ravaged like scorched bones.
There, Sprout 12 supported 237, who was almost unconscious. Both of them were covered in blood, but they still held each other's hands tightly.
The rift, its chest heaving violently, emitted a cold, mocking laugh:
"……I see."
"The root of this disorder... is neither light nor darkness, but—[you]."
It's as if it remembered something, or rather, recorded a certain goal.
The next instant, it raised its invisible head and uttered a low call towards the depths of the rift:
"--return."
The black flames surged, and its broken form shattered into countless fragments, which were then swallowed up again by the cracks.
But its final sound still echoes in the air:
"We will not intervene until the Old Gods fall into slumber."
"But when that so-called 'guardian' collapsed—"
"I will personally devour your souls."
The world was shrouded in deathly silence.
No one cheered.
No one breathed a sigh of relief.
Because they knew—this was not a victory.
Rather, it is a "delayed verdict" of disaster.
Bean Sprout 12 looked up at the blurry divine figure deep in the sky.
For the first time, he felt anger—not at the rift, but at the indifferent "god of order."
He growled in a low voice:
"What...do you take us for?"
The sky did not respond.
The outline gradually blurred, the chains of light loosened, and the world returned to normal.
It was as if nothing had happened.
But 237 felt that something was being quietly branded deep within his forehead.
An incomprehensible syllable echoed in his mind—
"Candidates".
The wind finally stopped.
After the black flames dissipated, the battlefield resembled a giant skeleton, illuminated by the cold afterglow.
On the charred earth, the broken light roots still emitted white smoke, and the huge rift valley stretched to the horizon, as if to split the continent in two.
There was no cheering.
Instead, it was a disturbing silence—a deathly stillness.
The scattered warriors gradually got up. Many had lost their limbs, and some even had their faces blurred by the black flames.
They should have been celebrating "surviving," but no one made a sound.
Because everyone is looking in the same direction—
In the center of that deep pit, carved out by the interplay of light and darkness.
Sprout 12 knelt with his back to everyone, covered in bloodstains.
In his arms was 237, who was almost unconscious.
The latter's eyes were half-open, and the light spot on his forehead was still flickering slightly, as if it might go out at any moment.
"—Medical Operator! Quickly—!!"
Someone finally came to their senses and ran over.
But when they stopped next to Sprout 12, they didn't reach out immediately.
Because they saw—
Sprout 12's entire arm was completely carbonized, and beneath the cracked bark were still burning light veins.
That's a sign that "after forcibly activating power to its limit, the body doesn't even have time to recover."
Sprout 12 didn't look at these people; he just whispered to the person in his arms:
"...Are you awake?"
237 blinked weakly.
Sprout 12 finally revealed a slight smile that wasn't quite a smile:
"If you can't walk, then don't... This time, I'll carry you on my back."
After he finished speaking, he stood up.
His entire charred arm was broken into ashes, but he still managed to carry 237 on his shoulder.
At that moment, all the rescuers had tears in their eyes.
Just as they left the edge of the battlefield, the enormous tree shadow in the sky finally began to dissipate.
It left no words.
But the instant it disappeared, a slight tremor resounded from the depths of the earth—
It's like a root being reburied in the soil, continuing its slumber.
No one knows if it will ever wake up again.
The soldiers began to assess the damage, repair the defenses, and re-establish the energy layer.
But everyone knows—
That "incarnation" did not truly depart.
It simply retreated into the depths of the fissure.
Waiting.
Even more frightening is that the unknown third force... did not offer any promise of "protection".
They were merely in a superior position, temporarily preventing a greater catastrophe.
But there was no answer—why help? Why remain silent?
The world has barely caught its breath, but no one dares to let their guard down.
Because everyone knows:
This battle was not a victory.
However, the death penalty is "suspended."
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