Chapter 1420: Soul-Reviving Corpses_2

“For… what…”

The new Pope murmured, then lifted his head, and what entered his sight were a pair of blazing white eyes.

“A monster like you—what could you possibly understand?”

Its smile froze in that instant, and then split apart.

A keen white gleam swept past as the new Pope raised the Nail Sword and cleaved through the falsehood before his eyes. The wound split open along that familiar face, yet what surged out was not blood, but a deep and fathomless darkness; what shattered was not flesh, but sharp fragments like broken glass.

“Sainy Loter!”

It loosed a twisted scream, and at the same time the mortal shell began to collapse, revealing beneath it the body in its original hideous, rotted state.

It was a crimson, blurred silhouette, clad in garments akin to those of a Demon Hunter—save that these clothes, who knew how many years they had been steeped in blood, were already decayed and torn. Had the new Pope not been so familiar with them, even he would have struggled to recognize this attire.

The skull was shriveled; within the sunken sockets burned the same blazing white as the new Pope’s eyes, and in its torso flowed the same blood.

“O Dead, sleep!”

The new Pope roared, swinging up the Nail Sword to savagely rip open its chest. Within the shredded meat, one could easily glimpse the silver-white hidden beneath the flesh.

It was as if a metal armor had been embedded into the bones, yet as the flesh revived, that silver-white armor too was continually reddening, burning, collapsing.

Spilling from the wound the new Pope had cleaved was not only fresh blood, but also silver-white metal—molten Holy Silver.

He suddenly lifted a foot and drove it hard into the wound, kicking this struggling Soul-Reviving Corpse once more down into the pitch-black depths of the well.

But it was not willing to submit. Laughter rose again beneath that twisted, terrifying face. It stretched out a hand and seized the keen Nail Sword in its grasp; even as its palm was sliced open, it refused to let go, hauling with all its strength on the new Pope, trying to drag him down into the depths of the well together.

“Step into Ascension with me!”

It issued its invitation.

The new Pope twisted the sword, easily cutting its palm into several pieces; yet by then his own body had already been yanked forward, half his torso suspended over the void, nearly plunging into the well along with it.

And then the new Pope saw.

Within the rolling, seeping black mist, something seemed to be writhing, as though tens of thousands of souls were striving to crawl out from the Abyss.

The next instant, a chaos of hallucinations flooded his vision, twisting his mind, clouding his judgment.

This was its Authority—a power of delirium and illusion. It had been trying all along to use hallucinations to interfere with the new Pope, yet at the last moment, it still failed.

“Why are you so unwilling to stay dead?”

The new Pope cursed, breaking free of the hallucination once more, and hurled the Nail Sword from his hand. The blade pierced through its throat with such force that, bearing the corpse with it, the Nail Sword smashed against the inner wall of the well before falling into the blackness below.

Darkness swallowed it first—and then the new Pope. He reached out, trying to catch hold of the reliefs carved into the wall, but he knew well, from his many descents into the Well of Ascension, how slick those walls were.

“Damn it.”

He blamed himself; by rights, with his capabilities, he should never have fallen into such disgrace.

The new Pope had grown weak—whether it was the pressure from below the well, or his waning ability to withstand the creeping erosion. He could not make sense of it, nor had he the time to. All he could do was stretch out his hands with all his strength, trying to seize something—anything at all.

In the instant of peril, another hand suddenly slapped out, like a clapping of palms, closing hard around the new Pope.

“Don’t let go!”

Anthony clutched the rim of the deep well with one hand, and with the other grabbed the new Pope, who was on the brink of falling into the dark, then heaved with all his might, dragging him back up to the mouth of the well.

The two of them tumbled onto the ground; feeling once more the weight of gravity and the level solidity beneath their bodies, they could not help but exhale a long breath.

Beneath the Well of Ascension lay what seemed like an endless Abyss—no sound of falling ever echoed back.

The new Pope struggled to his feet, clutching his sword, staring down into the Abyss below with lingering dread.

Cold sweat streamed down, soaking his collar. He gripped the blade tight, confirming the tangibility of matter, assuring himself that he had broken free of the illusion and returned to reality once more.

“What happened?”

Anthony, who had rushed over, asked. He did not know what had transpired.

“Another monster crawled up from the well,” the new Pope said.

“A Demon?”

The new Pope shook his head, his tone grave.

“Far more troublesome than that thing.”

“What?”

“Demon Hunters. Dead Demon Hunters.”

Since the Well of Ascension first grew restless, there had been ceaseless nightmares assailing them, and then Evil Ghosts clawing up from the depths. Yet those Evil Ghosts had been ordinary Demons only—until today, when the new Pope saw the corpses of Demon Hunters, corpses being driven and commanded.

Few knew that the Well of Ascension was in truth the true burial ground of Demon Hunters. All Demon Hunters who died and whose bodies could be retrieved would be consigned into this deep well.

Once, the new Pope had thought this was some unknown ritual. Now it seemed more a means of ensuring that the Secret Blood would remain forever sealed within the well, lessening the chance of its spread.

Only no one had foreseen that these corpses, which should have remained dead, would stir once more—and bear with them forbidden Authorities.

How many Demon Hunter corpses lay in this deep well?

The new Pope dared not carry that thought further. For beneath this well lay not only strange and hostile things, but an army entombed as in a grave.

“Demon… Hunters?”

At this, Anthony’s expression too hardened, crushed beneath a tremendous pressure. It was no longer merely troublesome.

In his dazed mind, that forbidden word surfaced once again.