Endless Debt Chapter 1166 - 22: Asceticism (2)

A surge of uncontrollable rage erupted from the depths of York's soul, nearly consuming him entirely.

At this critical juncture, York's mind was no longer preoccupied with notions of faith, law, or moral quandaries. His entire being was consumed by unvented anger and the stinging mockery from Gami.

"Justice that is bound."

Gami needed to be judged, to confess before him.

In this moment of clarity, York finally recognized his profound error. While he was indeed a kind and devout Priest, his excessive kindness had, in a twisted way, fostered the very birth of evil.

This was his failing, a sin born from his own piety, and he knew he must bear the full weight of its consequences.

Tears welled in York's eyes as he confessed his transgressions to his God, making a solemn vow to atone, willing to surrender everything to the encroaching darkness.

Like a ravenous beast, York lunged into the darkness, tearing into it and consuming vast swathes of the earth. The rainwater, mingled with the Blood of the Night Race, poured into his mouth. The forbidden blood coursed down his throat, seeping deep into his very being.

The potent Undying Power surged through York's body, rapidly mending the myriad wounds that marred him. Torn muscle fibers knitted together, fractured bones realigned and healed, and a newfound, formidable strength infused his physical form.

York reached out towards the scarlet wickedness, his hand plunging into the oppressive darkness, pushing through the heavy earth, shattering the confines of the buried grave, and reaching for the sky.

The illusion shattered, like a returning soul finding its vessel, York suddenly understood he had been interred alive. Yet, before he could fully process this realization, he felt another cold hand grasp his own, having broken through the grave.

Seizing another dark destiny.

The intermittent drizzle escalated into a ferocious downpour. Amidst the torrential rain, a man violently yanked York from the grave. The icy rain lashed against his face, stripping away the clinging mud, as if bestowing a baptism of new life.

York gasped in agony as the Blood of the Night Race reshaped his body, igniting a feverish burn within him. The rain striking his skin even produced faint wisps of white steam.

The man leaned close, a smile gracing his lips as he looked down at York. "Congratulations, Priest. How does this rebirth feel?"

York strained to lift his head, his vision initially focusing on a pair of eyes as red as rubies.

"You... Who are you?"

"Me? That is of no consequence," the man replied. "All you need to grasp is that I am the one who granted you this second chance."

"Why?"

"Why?" The man pondered for a moment. "It was simply... interesting."

"Interesting?"

It was an absurd reason, yet York found himself utterly speechless. The entire situation was, in itself, profoundly absurd.

"I wish to know, after all this, do you still hold faith in your God?" the man inquired.

"Of course," York affirmed with unwavering resolve. "My loyalty remains with Him."

"But you have now offered your soul to the Devil," the man found York increasingly captivating. "Even if a God truly exists, you can never enter His Celestial Kingdom."

"That changes nothing," York began to smile, his expression growing twisted and manic. "This is a grand sacrifice."

"I indeed surrendered my soul to the darkness to obtain a second chance, but my will, my devotion, it still belongs to Him. I will wield the power of darkness to act as His instrument."

Upon hearing this declaration, the man's expression hardened. In the very next instant, he seized York by the throat, hoisting him forcefully into the air.

"Do you not comprehend, Priest? There are no Gods in this world. Your faith is merely an empty, illusory facade."

The man seemed dissatisfied with York's reaction. He had anticipated York would exhibit greater desperation, akin to a cornered beast on the verge of collapse.

"I know."

York uttered the words with difficulty, tears surfacing in his eyes. "He does not exist... yet He also truly exists. He is my belief, my very principle, my virtue."

The man recoiled in surprise, releasing his grip on York, allowing him to tumble back into the mud. As the third flash of lightning briefly illuminated the rainy night, the man gazed once more at the mud-splattered York. To his astonishment, he then knelt on one knee, extending a hand to grasp York's.

"My apologies for my transgression, Priest. You truly possess a devout heart, even if its roots are entwined with dark power."

Even if this devotion has been warped by an extreme will.

This time, the man's gaze towards York was filled with genuine respect. He retrieved a chain from the hidden depths of his garment. The chain was covered in red rust and resembled thorny brambles. Solemnly, he presented it to York.

"You need this more than I do."

York examined the chain in his hand. Its once-bright luster had faded, replaced by a patina of red rust. It exuded an intimidating aura, each link adorned with sharp spikes like overlapping blades. The slightest movement caused the spikes to scrape against each other, producing a harsh, grating sound.

For reasons he couldn't comprehend, York felt a peculiar sense of vitality emanating from the cold, inanimate metal, as if it were alive, slithering over his arm like a colossal centipede.

"Who are you?"

York reiterated his question. The departing man, having already taken a few steps, glanced back and responded, "As I've said, it's of no consequence."

"No, it very much is an issue!"

York's hold on the chain intensified, its sharp spikes effortlessly penetrating his palm. Crimson droplets welled and splattered onto the aged metal, solidifying against the persistent rust.