Endless Debt Chapter 1375 - 115: Never Admit Defeat (Part 2)

New World Plan.

Bologue is a smart man, and relying on his ability to overthink, he can always deduce a complete story from fragmented information.

A forgotten story from many years ago is slowly clawing its way out of the grave.

Suddenly, Bologue seemed to comprehend one of life’s three ultimate questions.

Bologue vaguely knew where he came from.

So now, where should he go?

...

The approaching footsteps awakened Holt, fatigue and pain commanding him to keep sleeping, but out of instinctive alertness, he opened his eyes. Holt tried to get up, but this time he couldn’t stand.

"Don’t worry, it’s over now, just rest."

A somewhat familiar voice sounded, and Holt squinted, trying to see the other person clearly, but the blood obscured his vision, making everything in sight a scarlet blur.

It wasn’t until the other person reached out and wiped the blood from Holt’s eyes that his vision finally cleared.

"Fuen?"

Holt recognized the person, then immediately noticed the wounds covering Fuen’s body.

Unlike his perfect appearance when he first arrived, Fuen now looked like he’d rolled through blades. His clothes were torn, and his exposed skin was full of fine and deep wounds. Fortunately, the wounds did not bleed but continued to seep ether.

The most severe wound on Fuen was on his right chest, as if half his chest had been mangled, a mass of bloody flesh. The remaining hostile ether prevented his body from etherealization, causing continuous bleeding.

"What about him?" Holt asked.

"Him? It was a draw, unfortunately, he got away," Fuen shook his head helplessly, then continued, "But don’t worry, he’s not in good shape either. I managed to embed over a hundred silver shards in his body; to remove them, he’ll have to dig them out piece by piece."

At this part, a cheerful smile appeared on Fuen’s face.

Fuen helped Holt stand up, a swirling vortex forming invisible steps beneath them, the two strolling through the air, occasionally dropping traces of blood.

"How’s everyone else?"

"I’m not sure, but it seems they’re all alive," Fuen said, glancing at the distant cliff, where a huge gap had collapsed, "except your Desperate Outpost is gone, utterly gone."

Fuen quickly added, "But no matter, the monster has vanished, and the burning light has extinguished. You have no reason to stay here anymore."

"The Order Bureau is very busy now, they need people everywhere, you and your team will be a great help."

Fuen surprisingly babbled, perhaps to avoid a too-serious atmosphere, as he himself was quite an unserious guy.

"To confront a pure-blooded Night Race Seeker of Glory and fight to a draw, you did very well."

Fuen praised while trying to chat with Holt to keep him awake.

Holt, usually humorous, did not respond. He kept his head down, thinking about something, his thoughts crashing chaotically in his mind.

Fuen asked, "Do you feel ashamed?"

"A bit."

This time Holt responded, "I rarely lose so completely."

"It’s not your fault, the Tier difference is evident, let alone he’s an Undead," Fuen consoled.

Holt shook his head vigorously, then fell silent again. After a long time, by the time they were almost exiting the Great Rift, Holt suddenly spoke.

"I want to..."

His voice was drowned by the sound of the vortex wind, Fuen didn’t hear it clearly.

"What did you just say?" Fuen asked again.

Holt took a deep breath and yelled.

"I will apply to the Decision Room for Ascension."

He raised his head, looked into Fuen’s eyes, and repeated.

"Ascension! Ascend to become a Seeker of Glory!"

...

In the sinister and frightening Flesh Cave, the quiet Blood Lake suddenly began boiling violently. In the rising mist of blood, Beelzebub slowly rose from the blood, stepping on the water’s surface, her steps becoming staggered. Suddenly, the surface seemed to lose its support, and she plunged half of her body into the roiling blood.

She didn’t struggle for long; several tendrils stretched from the shore, binding her body, slowly dragging her back to the shore. The tendrils entwined, forming a throne of flesh.

Beelzebub sat on it laboriously, her chest rising and falling violently.

An excruciating pain tore through her consciousness as numerous tiny cracks appeared on her perfect shell. Beneath the cracks, there was no blood or flesh, only pitch-black tar gushing and seeping out, drop by drop.

"It’s been a long time since I’ve been in such a sorry state."

Beelzebub struggled to speak. Each sentence weighed heavily on her consciousness.

"Fortunately, it’s just a sorry state."

Mammon’s figure appeared before Beelzebub’s eyes. He reached out, tracing the cracks on her body, wiping away the tar with his fingers, tasting Beelzebub’s essence, and a bizarre laugh rumbled from his throat.

"Are you going to eat me?" Beelzebub asked.

"How could I," Mammon shook his head, "we’re blood relatives."

Beelzebub sneered at this, "So what if we’re blood relatives? We’ve been killing each other for years..."

"Can’t help it, that’s part of the Curse too. Everyone’s afraid of dying, and instead of allowing one to succeed, it’s better to mutually torment each other in this Hell," Mammon smiled, "At least this way, we all continue to live."

"Live?"

Beelzebub’s breath was particularly weak, King Solomon’s revenge seemed to have affected her essence.

"Mammon, what truly counts as living."

For such a question, Mammon could provide countless answers, but since it was Beelzebub asking, he could only smile.

Mammon couldn’t give Beelzebub the answer she wanted.

"Do you want... to be replaced?" Mammon asked tentatively.

Beelzebub narrowed her eyes and continued, "Our power is unshakable, but the consciousness that wields it can feel exhausted and weary. This should be a challenge all Undead face."

The time of the Undead is eternal, life is eternal, but consciousness is not.

People are the sum of their past experiences, but as the past accumulates, few can maintain original aspirations; more often, they become lost in the increasingly crowded memories, transforming into some malformed creature.

Beelzebub sometimes reminisced about past stories, but each scene seemed like looking at another’s life.

"So... so we can replace, replace the useless, and keep one’s consciousness pure, just like in that parable."

Mammon responded, "Theseus’ Ship."

Beelzebub’s gaze wandered for a moment. King Solomon’s revenge had not harmed her power but affected her consciousness.

The blade in her hand remained sharp, but the hand that wielded it had lost its strength.

But soon, Beelzebub’s gaze turned resolute. She stood up from the throne of flesh and murmured, "I won’t give up, absolutely not."

Mammon only smiled. He knew too well the personalities of his blood relatives; every one of them was a complete coward, tired of their current lives but never conceding defeat.

"I captured someone you might be interested in."

Mammon waved his hand, and the blood in the lake began to rise, coalescing into a blood-colored mirror.

Beelzebub looked into the mirror, first seeing several Silent Ones, and behind them, a man bound heavily in chains.

He was battered and bloody, Beelzebub couldn’t discern his appearance but could feel the power within him through the mirror.

"His name is York, we found him in the ruins of Gray Stone Town. He possesses an Original Sin Armament and has received the Protection of Wrath."

Mammon imparted his plan to Beelzebub.

"He will become an alarm clock, awakening the beast of war."