Chapter 170: Shadow

Chapter 170: Shadow

In the span of a blink, Colin Iliad transformed into a four-meter-tall “giant.” His body was knotted and dark greenish-black. Every inch of skin, every pore, every piece of flesh seemed to defy ordinary human senses, assembled in a special manner and containing an unimaginable impact.

This could no longer be described as flat or three-dimensional. It was as though beyond length, width, and height, new dimensions of measurement—information, power, spirituality, and the like—had appeared, presented directly before the eyes. They seemed condensed into mysterious, complicated patterns, symbols, and signs, when in truth they had not changed at all. The former was merely the partial impression received by humans due to the inadequacy of their own senses. Yet even so, when facing such creatures directly, humans lacking divinity would still find their spirituality corrupted, their minds ravaged, and their brains assaulted. Dying on the spot or going completely mad were not uncommon outcomes.

Because of this, such creatures were called, in mysticism:

Mythical creatures!

However, Colin Iliad’s head showed no overly obvious changes at this moment. It had merely swollen quite a bit, while the region from his forehead down to his nose had split open with a dark, vertical eye-like crack.

Before Sequence 2, the mythical creature form of a demigod was incomplete!

For powerhouses of this level, manifesting such a form was a matter with very clear benefits and drawbacks. On one hand, it could bring an enormous increase in personal strength and level. On the other, it brought with it intense madness and a strong tendency toward losing control, placing the mind under no small test. Those without extremely firm will were incapable of handling it.

Therefore, most saints would only consider fully becoming an incomplete mythical creature when forced into absolute desperation, rather than merely transforming a certain body part. To them, this too was an act of dancing on a blade’s edge, and it could easily cause them to lose control. They had to be cautious, then cautious again.

Outside of the majority were two extremes. One consisted of the few who indulged their desires and flaunted their malice. The other consisted of those with extremely firm will and exceptionally resilient minds. For the former, once they revealed their own mythical creature form, it basically meant they would lose control and could never change back. The latter could use mythical creature form as a relatively common combat method, unafraid of the impact of madness and the tendency toward losing control. Of course, “relatively common” was still not “common.” It still meant they could not do it too frequently, because for a person wandering at the edge of the abyss, every test would deepen the corrosion. Merely being able to withstand it did not mean one could completely avoid it.

Within the City of Silver’s six-member council, Chief Colin Iliad belonged to the kind capable of controlling the Demon Hunter’s mythical creature form.

Carrying two straight swords smeared with different ointments, he merely stepped forward with his right foot, and amid the ground’s trembling, his entire person leapt up, pouncing from midair toward the top of the altar—toward the former Chief whose body was covered in white feathers.

Inside and outside his giant-like body, dawn-like light burst forth, driving away the surrounding darkness and purifying the horrifying creatures in the illusory river behind him.

At the same time, Waite Chirmont repeatedly drew the Dragon-Hunting Bow, letting resplendent, dazzling silver-white thunder arrows connect into surging waves and rush toward the former Chief, who had already transformed into some unknown monster.

Lovia had already closed her eyes in preparation. Behind her, that silver-armored knight more than five meters tall flashed, dragging its illusory greatsword as it collided directly with the front of the altar, causing one flowing silver fissure after another to split open there.

In addition, beneath this Shepherd Elder’s feet, the coiled shadow suddenly wriggled on its own, as though it had come alive.

It swiftly detached from Lovia and, in an environment where darkness and dawn interlaced, rushed along gloomy places toward the iron-black coffin at the top of the altar.

However, its target seemed not to be the mutated former Chief, but the illusory black tubes piercing into that figure’s body and extending toward infinity!

…

Klein had just returned to the real world when he heard the waves outside become extremely violent. He heard the terrified screams of street girls rise one after another, showing not the slightest sign of calming down.

Slightly stunned, he walked to the room’s window and looked through the gap between two disorderly constructed buildings. Outside Bodo Harbor, he saw lead-gray clouds piled in layers, waves like mountains, and a black storm extending from the sea surface all the way into midair. Dark silver-white lightning silently tore everything apart.

It was as though the gate leading to doomsday had finally opened.

Within the small port city, the void became translucent. Skeletons with open mouths, vines protruding with infant faces, bloody arms, and strange slippery tentacles bearing teeth slapped from the other side against the illusory barrier between reality and illusion, both excited and ferocious.

This frightened many pirates until their legs went weak. They no longer dared remain on the streets and rushed into the nearest buildings one after another.

Almost invisible Wraith shadows flew back and forth, occasionally flashing as they leaned close to different targets’ ears, wanting to let out full-throated shrieks, yet unable to make contact.

At this moment, Bodo Harbor seemed to have fallen into the Underworld, which was also known as hell—gloomy, dark, chaotic, and mad.

Klein’s brows furrowed slightly. He vaguely understood what had happened.

His divination above the gray fog just now had enraged the thing deep within the cold mausoleum. It had then vented its emotions, altering the weather of the Berserk Sea and Bodo Harbor, creating signs as though the Underworld were about to descend.

“In other words, that mausoleum is indeed somewhere hidden in the Berserk Sea… It is most likely something left behind by Death. Of course, that does not necessarily contradict the Numinous Episcopate’s artificial Death project. The two may have ‘fused’ together…”

Klein withdrew his gaze and quickly arranged a ritual, sacrificing Azik’s copper whistle above the gray fog so that it would not be locked onto by that unknown, strange, evil thing.

After completing all this, he looked out the window at the gradually calming anomalies and laughed at himself.

“This welcome ceremony could be called quite enthusiastic.

“Hmm… The Numinous Episcopate will definitely notice the abnormal changes in the Berserk Sea. I wonder what kind of action they will take…”

…

Upon the illusory, pitch-black river, the waves slowly calmed. The arms, vines, and tentacles that had tried to seize outward were either completely evaporated or forced to retreat.

Around the altar, the ground was already dry and cracked, and white feathers stained with pale-yellow grease had fallen everywhere.

The giantified Colin Iliad had already thrust the two straight swords in his hands into the former Chief’s body at the same time, pinning that rotting monster, no shorter than himself, to the collapsed altar. Meanwhile, the Dragon-Hunting Bow in Waite Chirmont’s hand condensed a silver-white arrow of light filled with a violent aura, aiming at the former Chief’s head, which had only a small amount of flesh still clinging to it.

The shadow separated by Lovia, under the cover of the silver full-body-armored knight, smoothly arrived at the altar. While the other two elders were not paying attention, it suddenly darted upward, pouncing toward that illusory black tube on the former Chief’s body which extended toward infinity.

Seeing the unreal tube draw closer and closer, the shadow’s color abruptly deepened, black as the most depraved and evil thoughts in the human heart.

Just then, a low voice echoed around the altar:

“Fate.”

The shadow’s “vision” instantly darkened. Immediately afterward, it discovered that it had pounced onto the giant-sized Colin Iliad.

Colin lowered his head and looked at it. In his eyes, pure and clear light abruptly lit up.

It was like the first ray of light illuminating darkness within the long night.

That light grew brighter and brighter, rushing upward out of the mausoleum, drawing even more brilliant and blazing radiance from the bottom of the City of Silver’s round tower to surge up in response.

The two met in midair, then turned downward, falling upon Colin Iliad’s massive body. The pitch-black shadow hissed as it evaporated, growing fainter amid twisting and writhing until it completely vanished.

Demon Hunter Colin turned his head and glanced at Lovia. He said nothing, showing no expression, as though nothing whatsoever had just happened.

He quickly withdrew his gaze and guided the remaining radiance into the twin swords stabbed into the former Chief’s body.

Lovia stood there with her eyes closed from beginning to end, showing not a hint of panic or fear. Instead, she slowly sighed.

…

Bayam, City of Generosity.

Alger Wilson circled several times in succession, shaking off the imaginary trackers and watchers, before arriving before the Artisan’s house and ringing the doorbell.

When Alger had first heard that the Artisan had fallen mysteriously ill and that strange observers had appeared nearby, the first suspicion that came to him was the Demoness Sect. But after thinking carefully, he felt that given the Artisan’s tastes, the man would have no ability to resist the temptation of beauty. The Demonesses would have no need to make the matter so complicated. With a casual crook of the finger and a display of charm, they could make him reveal anything and agree to anything.

Therefore, Alger believed there must be another reason behind the matter. He needed to personally come and look, lest the delivery of the mystical item be delayed again, and lest the characteristic and materials vanish for inexplicable reasons.

Amid the ringing sound, the front door of the Artisan’s house opened. A lean, middle-aged man with slightly tanned skin glanced at Alger and said, “Why are you here?”

This was Shalf, the Artisan who had cooperated with Alger for several years, though his exact origins remained unknown.

“Didn’t you write and say you were sick?” Alger asked, seeming casual.

Shalf yawned.

“I’m already better.”

Alger froze slightly. He looked left and right.

“What about those strange observers?”

Shalf had slightly puffy eye bags. Fatigue and impatience showed in his brown eyes.

“Who knows? In any case, they haven’t appeared again. Either way, I’ll be moving soon. This place isn’t very safe anymore.”

Alger relaxed and said, “It’s good that nothing happened.”

After a pause, he added, “Aren’t you going to invite me in for a drink?”

“A fellow like you who only pursues strength of alcohol can’t appreciate good wine at all.” Shalf scratched his flaxen hair and stepped sideways to clear the path.

Alger walked in steadily. With only one lift of his eyes, he took most of the scene into his gaze.