Chapter 813: The God After Decay

Moonlight—something that should never have appeared—pierced the darkness over the fallen plains. At the heart of this long-dead world, the Upper Narrator lay prone atop a spiraling hill. Its divine, arthropod-like limbs clung tightly to the rocky outcrops formed from fragments of history. The clear moonlight draped over this godly creature like a sheer veil, the full moon hanging directly above the hill.

Gawain lifted his head, gazing at the enormous spider.

It seemed as if it had died chasing the moonlight.

Of course, it wasn’t really the moonlight it pursued. This sandbox world, like the reality beyond, had no “moon.” Yet the way it clung to the hillside in death… it truly looked like it had been chasing something.

Magnum tilted his head back. The Upper Narrator’s limbs blocked the moonlight, casting a vast shadow over him. The fiery red-haired bishop squinted slightly. “Hah… quite the spectacle…”

“We’ve come face to face with the true nature of this world,” Yuri couldn’t help but ask, “But what now? The Upper Narrator is dead—do we have to resurrect it just to kill it again?”

“The body is here, yes,” Gawain said calmly, “But think about the ‘veil’ that deceived us all, and those spiders that attacked us. The life and death of a god is far more complex than that of mortals. It may be dead, but on some dimension, some plane, its influence still lingers…”

Gawain’s words were vague because even he wasn’t certain. But he did have some theories about the “death of gods.” The gods of the real world had died before—the battle logs of the Godslayer Fleet, the corpses of gods found in the deep sea and the Rebellion Fortress were undeniable proof. Yet the gods returned again and again, answering their followers’ prayers time and time again. This proved one thing:

Even if a god dies, even if its corpse lies before you, it still lives on some level.

Selina also looked up cautiously at the massive spider remains, her brow furrowing slightly. “It seemed to be protecting something before it died.”

Following Selina’s gaze, Gawain looked up and saw thick strands of silk tangled between the Upper Narrator’s limbs. Between the gaps in the webbing, something faintly took shape.

Several cocoons, wrapped tightly in spider silk.

The Upper Narrator seemed to be guarding those cocoons, some of its limbs curled protectively beneath its body.

“Definitely protecting something…” Gawain frowned and stepped forward. “Maybe what it was protecting is the key.”

But just as he approached the spiraling hill, an invisible wind swept across the barren plain. Dust and debris swirled in the gust, and instinctively, Gawain and the others stopped. When the wind died down, a figure had appeared not far ahead.

An old man in tattered robes, tall and white-bearded, holding a battered lantern that looked like it had been used for ages.

He called himself Duvalet, the Upper Narrator’s priest.

Yuri and Magnum’s expressions instantly grew serious. They also noticed that the white-haired girl named Narithil was nowhere near the old man on the ground.

Duvalet stepped forward from the wind, his gaze locking onto Gawain.

“I’m surprised,” he said, his voice no longer kind and gentle but sharp and hoarse, as if his throat had long since rotted away and his voice resonated from broken flesh and blood, “I’ve never seen an individual like you… The information you bring nearly corrupted the entire story.”

Gawain said nothing. He took a step forward, and suddenly a black longsword tinged with dark red appeared in his hand. Another step, and he donned the heavy armor he had worn seven centuries ago on the battlefield.

“Very well. This kind of ‘conversation’ is more direct.”

Duvalet, clad in ragged robes, watched silently as Gawain drew his sword and advanced. Calmly, he tossed aside the lantern.

The flame inside instantly died out. But at the moment the light vanished, countless shadows erupted from Duvalet’s aged body. They howled madly, intertwining and swelling in the air until, in the blink of an eye, they formed a massive spider made of ash, smoke, shadows, and dark red patterns—an exact replica of the dead Upper Narrator on the spiraling hill!

A strange roar echoed from the dust. The black spider, covered in divine markings, raised a limb to block the fiery longsword in Gawain’s hand. Sparks flew as blade met chitin. From within the spider’s form came Duvalet’s voice—no longer human: “It’s a pity your blade, forged from reality, cannot withstand endless nightmares…”

Gawain gripped his sword tightly, calmly meeting the dark red eyes flickering in the smoke. A faint, illusory light spread along his blade. “Funny enough, I’m somewhat skilled in dreams too…”

Phantom flames flickered over the Pathfinder’s Sword. The once-impervious spider limb was sliced clean in two. Duvalet’s massive form moved with incredible agility, sidestepping Gawain’s next strike and unleashing a series of chaotic, incomprehensible roars.

Gawain spun his wrist, the sword arcing in a half-circle before striking again. “Are you the Upper Narrator? Its avatar? A projection? And who is that girl, Narithil? The god is dead… so where does this lingering presence come from?”

The spider-Duvalet dodged and countered the relentless assault, its voice a garbled whisper amid the noise: “Outsider… you ask many questions… But sadly, nightmares hold no answers!”

Suddenly, a thick fog descended over the plain. The heavy mist instantly clouded everyone’s senses. In the darkness, only the vague silhouette of a giant spider darted swiftly through the haze. Yuri spread his hands, tracing golden runes that fortified their minds. Magnum summoned a powerful psychic storm, dispelling the encroaching mental corruption. Selina held her lantern, watching the fog warily while glancing toward Gawain.

Gawain gripped his sword, eyes slowly scanning the dense mist. The giant spider shadow flickered before him, but he merely stepped back calmly, not looking away. “Yuri, Magnum, return to the real world.”

…

Deep within the catacombs of the Sleeper’s headquarters, the lower containment zone lay silent, as if the entire palace were shrouded in peaceful slumber.

Near the lower assembly hall, in a solitary containment chamber, the serene and gentle “Spirit Song” Wendy sat quietly on her bed, watching a nearly transparent white spider of unknown origin. She observed it weaving its web in the corner, scurrying across the floor.

Wendy’s face was calm, her gaze still as water, as if she had been watching for a century—and intended to keep watching.

Suddenly, she blinked, as if awakened from a dream, lifting her head.

Opposite her bed, a sea witch rune carved from arcane materials glowed softly, radiating a strange power that cleared the mind and sharpened thought.

Wendy’s brow furrowed.

Spider… why was there a spider in a containment zone with strict control and cleaning protocols?

The archbishop rose and instinctively approached the spider weaving in the corner. Startled, it quickly scuttled up the wall, its long legs moving swiftly, then vanished into thin air halfway up.

Wendy’s expression turned grave.

She hurried to the iron door and knocked firmly twice. “Guard, what’s the situation outside?”

After a brief pause, a muffled voice came from beyond the door. “Everything is normal outside, Archbishop Wendy.”

Wendy frowned and quietly opened her psychic sight. Through the hazy vision it granted, she peered past the heavy metal door and saw the armored spirit knight guards standing in the corridor.

Though not a combat specialist herself, Wendy was an archbishop-level cleric. The protective wards on the containment doors and walls could not fully block her psychic probing.

“Guard,” Wendy said softly, her eyes glowing faintly as she watched the figure in the corridor, “Are you absolutely sure everything is normal out there?”

“Everything is normal, Archbishop Wendy,” the armored guard replied gruffly. But through Wendy’s psychic sight, she clearly saw the guard slowly raise his right hand, palm down, pressing it against his chest!

The Upper Narrator’s corruption?! When?!

Wendy, who had thought herself the first Spirit Song to be contaminated and contained by the Upper Narrator, widened her eyes. She vaguely realized that everyone had been deceived by some illusion. Her hand pressed against the cold metal door, her gaze sharpening instantly.

She thought for only two seconds.

Then, turning, she pressed her body against the wall beside the door, eyes fixed on the rune on the opposite wall—its miraculous power capable of purifying mental corruption. In a clear voice, she spoke:

“To the Upper Narrator, to our omniscient and omnipotent Lord—”

The sound of armor scraping echoed down the corridor, as if the guard was listening intently.

“Comrade, open the door,” Wendy said, controlling her heartbeat and breath, her tone calm, “The Lord’s arrival is at hand.”

A moment of unbearable silence passed. Then, the guard’s voice came through: “Understood. One moment, comrade. This is truly good news.”

With the grinding of metal, the iron door beside Wendy slowly creaked open. A figure clad in shining silver armor stepped inside.

“Comrade—” the figure spoke.

Wendy suddenly reached out and grabbed the guard’s arm. With a sharp tug and pull, she swung the towering figure through the air, spinning him halfway around before slamming him—armor and all—against the nearby wall. The heavy clanking of his ironclad body hitting the stone echoed sharply—clang!

Before he even hit the ground, Wendy surged forward again, pinning the still-conscious and resisting knight to the floor. She gripped his helmeted head firmly, forcing his visor-covered eyes to meet hers. In a low, commanding voice, she ordered, “Look at me! Mind Shock!”

The strong, well-trained knight, despite his physical strength and mental resilience, was utterly defenseless against such a close-range assault from an archbishop. Almost instantly, he slipped into a deep unconsciousness.

Satisfied that he could no longer fight back, Wendy released her grip, letting the heavy helmet thud against the floor with a dull clang.

She stood up and turned toward the corridor.

But just a few steps out, right as she was about to step through the door, she suddenly stopped.

A warning deep within her mind forced her to halt abruptly. She quickly racked her brain, wondering if she’d forgotten something crucial.

Then, she turned back and saw the mysterious runes on the wall—the very symbols that had helped her gradually break free from the upper narrator’s mental corruption.

She wasn’t sure if she was still carrying any trace of that contamination. Nor could she tell if leaving the room now was truly her own choice—or if something else was pulling the strings.

After a moment of hesitation and thought, Wendy took a steadying breath and made her decision.

She had to warn her comrades in the upper levels—the containment zone was already compromised!

(Oh my god!!!!!!)

(Completely drained, utterly defeated…

That’s the end of the double update. From now on, it’ll be back to single updates. Honestly, I didn’t have much stock saved up this time. The second chapter these past couple of days was written and posted on the fly, and today my energy finally ran out… Looking back, after writing for ten years, my body definitely isn’t what it used to be. Energy is low, and my tendonitis seems ready to flare up again. So this is where I have to stop.

I’ll rest for a while, then start building up drafts again.

Since I’m just sitting around anyway, please consider leaving a monthly vote! For this month and next—who knows, it might help.)

(The End of This Chapter)