Endless Debt Chapter 1326 - 100: Wrathful Sanctuary (Part 3)

Aimou considered for a moment and reminded, "Your twisted humor shouldn’t be forced on others, alright? How is it any different from ’I have a friend’?"

Bologue chuckled twice to lighten the mood, then pushed open the heavy door. Just as Bologue imagined, behind the door was the same murky darkness.

"What do you think, how are things on the Gray Stone Rift side?" Bologue murmured, "And whether the Order Bureau managed to stop the invaders."

After speaking, Bologue stepped into the darkness and vanished.

...

In the glow of the fire, everything York once knew was collapsing. Thick smoke filled the air, houses were engulfed by flames, the bricks crumbled, the ashes buried all, trees consumed entirely by the fire, leaving only charred trunks. Broken bricks, tiles, and shards of glass scattered across the ground, the chaotic streets veiled by dust and acrid smoke, destruction lingered everywhere.

The original appearance of Gray Stone Town was no longer recognizable, leaving only ruins and desolation.

The constant moaning wasn’t cries for help from survivors, but the groans of grotesque beings.

Twisted flesh resisted the fire’s invasion, slowly writhing, laying a fungal carpet on the ground, voraciously devouring the surrounding organic matter.

Fallen bodies were enveloped, transformed by hyphae, their flesh decaying, skin shriveled like paper, limbs charred by the blaze, muscles exposed, bones visible, as if horrifying entities crawled out from Hell.

The undead moved slowly and dully, swaying their bodies without regard for the broken ground and sharp debris, their eyes hollow yet still exuding a trace of malice and evil.

They wandered aimlessly, their footsteps on charred wood and tiles creating a jarring stomping sound.

Suddenly, the erratic undead stiffened, halted in place, then collectively moved forward as if advancing in a march, their mouths agape with rotting teeth exposed, emitting a stench. They let out low growls like terrifying chants from Hell.

York watched them sadly, remembering once they were filled with laughter and joy, but everything had ended.

Gray Stone Town was merely an Outpost, not a fortress. With the combined attack of the Rebellious Royal Court and the Sect of Corrupt Blood, this town experiencing massive upheaval met its complete destruction. Countless undead, laden with flesh, advanced along Gray Stone Rift with a clear aim, towards the Calamity of this world found in the Abandoned Land.

The abhorrent Night Race, using smoke and fog, gained temporary mobility during the day, attempting to be hindered by the surviving Field Staff, yet tangled by countless undead.

Warriors dwindled, leaving only York standing. Amidst sharp pain, York lost the count of times he fell and stood again.

Relying on the blood of these flesh monsters, York’s existence reached a delicate balance, but even then, he couldn’t stop the advancing monsters. He couldn’t hold on alone, let alone save what was already lost.

Not enough... not enough...

Immense sorrow transformed into anger, York let out a low roar, his body entwined with thorn-like serpents, akin to countless arms frantically striking.

Each of York’s swings could knock down a swath of enemies, yet the undead seemed incapable of being completely eradicated. Despite York’s utmost effort to slaughter, the undead emerged ceaselessly.

Thorns acted like sharp blades, slicing York’s skin, blood flowed out, yet York felt no pain. His steel-like will and endless fury propelled his actions; each strike brimming with power and rage, severing the decaying bodies of the undead.

"Why?"

Amidst wrath, a calm voice questioned.

"Why is the world like this?"

It was York’s voice, cold to the extreme.

York was not unfamiliar with that voice; the night he was buried, he heard it.

Another self questioned, doubted God, doubted faith, challenged everything York once firmly believed in.

No one responded.

The undead tirelessly rose from the ground, as if they felt no pain, holding no bounds of life. Their necks twisted to impossible angles, broken bones pierced through the skin, yet they continued onward, their gaze vacant, seeking to consume living flesh.

Gradually, the ground filled with corpses piled high like mountains, elevating York, the wildly flailing thorns slowed down, not because York was fatigued, but because each thorn was covered with writhing flesh, leech-like creatures clinging tightly.

York’s body grew heavier as undead surrounded, covering him one by one, scarlet flesh consuming all vision.

Silence.

This seemed to be true death.

York thought so.

As death approached, York felt no fear, but rather tranquility. Perhaps the events over time had exhausted him, now he truly found relief.

Yet at this moment, that familiar voice rose again, questioning him.

"Why has the world become like this?"

Why do Devils truly exist in this world, but no Gods descend, why must he endure all this...

Too many whys, but none related to York anymore. His internal fury waned, leaving only fatigue, but suddenly, a series of familiar faces flashed before York’s eyes.