151: holy war

Chapter 149: Holy War

The surge of telluric power continued to churn, not only cleansing most of the Undead but also dispersing the eerie Night Mist.

Jean Candy was enduring an indescribable agony, even more intense than the pain he suffered during his ancestor's transformation.

The light continuously scorched his entire body, and the surrounding Undead creatures, which had been standing, were now reduced to ash.

Even those more resilient beings were suffering the same burning torment as him, having long lost their combat ability, only able to wail in pain.

He had to leave here, Jean Candy thought to himself.

He stumbled out, fleeing towards the gate like a drunken man.

A shimmering giant wolf galloped from the other side of the town.

Jean Candy noticed it; the beast was much larger than him.

He tried to raise his hammer to defend himself, but his movements were as slow as if in slow motion.

The giant wolf crashed into him, its sharp claws tearing open his body.

He could clearly feel his perfect body being ripped apart.

He roared unwillingly, and just before he completely succumbed to death, he vaguely saw the priest standing on the wolf's back.

His soul was burning, and he longed for his brother, Luke, to save him.

If only he could hide in the mist, if only he could throw himself into the embrace of the King of the Undead...

Arthur watched this twisted, ugly, and decaying soul turn to ashes in the telluric surge.

After confirming it had been completely annihilated, he turned his gaze to the fanatics and the Pioneer Group warriors.

"Believers!"

His voice, amplified by his divine art, rang out, calling to them.

It was him; he was back among them—the priest, the one who brought salvation.

The fanatics screamed again, surging towards the giant wolf.

The power of the telluric lines healed their wounds and invigorated their bodies and minds.

They continuously chanted the Mother Earth, the Saints, and other words of praise.

Under the continuous cleansing of positive energy, these people, who had once fallen into despair, became fearless.

Jessica and the other veterans were regrouping the forces scattered by the Undead.

They could hardly believe what was happening before their eyes, yet deep inside, something was also ignited.

They longed to fight, to die, to give their all.

And within Jessica, a primal urge was churning.

He dared not look directly at the giant wolf; the wild power emanating from it was awakening the beast within him.

Rage burned, and past memories flooded his mind, enough to make him abandon thought.

He recalled the massacre of the entire settlement, and the giant wolf was awakening their most painful memories, thereby igniting their fury.

Jessica found that the survivors of the Pioneer Group were also engulfed in anger, just like him.

The warrior looked at Arthur on the giant wolf's back; his expression was sad, yet tinged with a cold detachment.

"Believers!" Arthur shouted.

The giant wolf walked among the believers and lowered itself so Arthur could dismount.

The priest, holding his staff and holy book, strode through the crowd like a colossal beast emerging from raging waves.

"This is your moment, and this is your mission."

Screams and praises reached new heights.

Jessica felt his anger surge even further.

He struggled to suppress it, his eyes fixed on that inflammatory figure.

"What is salvation?" the young priest asked, his gaze sweeping over everyone.

"Fight!"

"What is happiness?"

"Fight!"

"What is liberation?"

"Fight!"

They shouted louder each time, their thunderous voices making the earth tremble.

The veterans shouted alongside these fanatics, feeling this syllable resonate in their chests.

"You have cowered behind this wall for too long," the priest said, raising his holy book. "Now, we will go beyond this wall; we will bring death and destruction to our enemies.

"We are the Goddess's executioners, to utterly purge this evil from the world."

Outside the gate, the Undead were wailing; their once terrifying faces now appeared both ridiculous and pathetic.

At this moment, Arthur walked to the front of the line, putting away his holy book.

Holy light enveloped him.

"For the honor of the living!"

The priest let out a thunderous roar, stepped out of the city gate, and walked towards the Undead in the darkness.

Behind him, the believers, surging forth from the light, were like a ruthless vortex.

They were his guiding light, Shanteya's chosen.

They screamed as they advanced, their path behind them stained with blood, their eyes burning with the scorching fury of death, destruction, and judgment upon the world.

On the city wall, Vanka witnessed all of the Pioneer Group pouring out of Mist Town.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

She heard the shouts of these people.

The leader of the throng was a familiar figure, raising his staff and unleashing destructive divine arts.

The weakened Undead were quickly eliminated one by one by this fanatical group.

The giant wolf leaped off the city wall, its massive body rampaging across the battlefield, its body glowing in the night, knocking down everything in its path.

Vanka watched intently for a moment, captivated by the fervor of the believers' fight.

With the will to fight to the death, she charged forward.

A new scraping sound against the railing startled Vanka.

An Undead climber scrambled over the edge, silently screaming at her, its jaw unnaturally extended.

She had witnessed a miracle and was in its midst, feeling immense pride.

She took a step back, letting it climb up, preparing to draw her sword and meet it.

On either side of her, Flora had already engaged in battle.

Vanka watched the figure climb over the edge, its head's skin taut and translucent like wet parchment;

Its shriveled hands gripped the wood tightly, squeezing like sponges, leaving cracks in the wood.

She saw its eyes in the shadows, pale green, sparkling like twin stars.

When it saw Vanka, it bared a hideous grin and licked its broken lips.

It hobbled across the narrow ledge towards her, extending its arms.

Vanka waited for the opportune moment to attack.

She had learned to act calmly, not rushing to swing her sword lest she miss and put herself in danger.

At just the right moment, she swung her long sword in a wide arc, tilting it slightly.

The blade landed precisely above the Undead's collarbone, at its shoulder, the metal sinking deep, tearing through the dry flesh and half-severing its neck.

The Undead warrior violently tore itself from the sword, still charging at her, its head connected only by a half-severed tendon.

Vanka put all her strength into it, gripping the hilt with both hands and dragging the sword horizontally.

The sharp long sword sliced through the thin flesh, tearing off its head, which bounced and rolled away on the stones.

As the decapitated body lunged at her, Vanka still had her arms extended; she pulled back, retreating and dodging with the momentum of drawing her sword.

The headless body fell at her feet, lifeless.

The severed head's eyes still glowed eerily, and that strange grin remained on its face.